For Every Evil 3
by Mirrordance
Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it.  The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.
1. Where We Stand

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

* * *

**Hi Everybody**!

I think I'm posting sooner than I should, but you know how experimentation makes me both nervous and excited at the same time. FEE3 is going to be vastly different from FEE's 1 and 2. It actually might be closer to my usual styles, as applied in "Last Stand" and "Love, War--" stories within a story. Which makes it much harder to write, but also much more enjoyable for me. Anyway, just as a reminder, each FEE installment serves a different purpose, which were discussed in the previous posts:

FEE1 was the link between the book/movie verse and the modern times. That's why there were recurring scenes and themes, as well as a whole lot of characters reclaiming their memories. The purpose of FEE1 was to attempt to bridge the understandeble disconnect between Tolkien's universe and this modern one.

FEE2 was my no-holds-barred modern experiment, including a lot of modern attitudes and perspectives, and especially ideals and issues.

FEE3, at least from how it's shaping up so far (I'm far from done), is going to re-link the past and the future. It chronicles the road that led us to where we are in the story (so a ton of flashbacks), and hopefully, to tie it up in a circular way where we have the present, we have the history of the past, and we also have a good knowledge of what will happen in the future. I like tight little endings that take you back to the beginning. Circular journeys to me, are the hardest ones to go through and also the most important ones.

On another matter, from a creative standpoint, you might also find that FEE3 opens up a world of possibilities-- I'll be delving more into this in my usual afterword, much, much later :) In the meantime, this introductory greeting has gone on long enough. I just wanted to give you an overview of what's going on, and hope that you'd still be interested in the tale, haha... I also wanted to thank everyone who supported me throughout the FEE's, and who encouraged me to pursue the 3rd. I can't promise quick and frequent updates, but as always, I can promise to try.

So without further ado (that is, after the re-cap below, haha), I present: For Every Evil 3...

* * *

0: Where We Stand 

_A Brief Summary of For Every Evil 2\_

* * *

The new world needed help as much as the old world once did, and the reunited Fellowship stepped up to the plate. In their various reincarnated forms, extraordinary times turned these ordinary people from doctors, cops and businessmen into modern-day heroes, in For Every Evil 2, fighting the threat of bioterrorism.

In Los Angeles, Detectives Leland Greene/Legolas and Rafael Montes investigated a series of gang-related murders, only to discover that the cause is a drug-war gone wrong: what the gangs thought to be cheap cache of heroin is actually a cache of weaponized Ebola.

As the disease ravaged the city, Doctor Adrian Aarons/Aragorn's hospital was locked down in a quarantine. As the ill and their doctors fought for life over death, love emerged in the form of a surprisingly willing quarantined woman: a model-slash-actress named Arianne Underhill. The sleeping soul of Arwen Undomiel was stirred within her, when Adrian Aarons treated her ankle after a fashion-shoot mishap with a renegade stiletto.

Elsewhere, in Africa, the same viral strain was battled by Brad Greer / Boromir and the CDC, as it plagued a tiny village near Lake Victoria. He ran into Interpol agents Horace Harding / Haldir and fresh recruit Jimmy Goran / Gimli, as they pursued an international criminal, trying to find out what he was doing with laundered money.

Slowly, events unfolded to reveal that all the heroes were working on the same case: the mistaken drug war in Los Angeles, the locked down hospital, the African outbreak, and the money laundering were all intricately bound together by an extremist group of environmentalists ready and eager to rid the world of a huge chunk of its human parasites.

Harding, Goran and Greer closed in on the culprits, as Greene and Montes searched for a virus-bomb in Los Angeles, and Adrian Aarons fought to live as an infected patient.

The timely arrival of the Peredhils made way for a cure that saved the lives of millions, at the risk of the exposure of elven genes to the boundless curiosity of the modern world.

Eventually, the extremists were captured, the ill received the cure, and Greene and Montes prevented millions more from coming down with the disease when they derailed the virus-bomb. Saving millions of lives, however, came with extreme personal costs for the two detectives: Montes' beloved wife Julianna died anyway, and Greene finally revealed that he was not like everybody else. They lost their friendship, as Montes' grief transformed his curiosity about his mysterious partner into suspicion and, ultimately, a deep distrust.

It is from the strain of salvaging a ruined friendship that For Every Evil 3 begins: Greene and Montes are out on the hardy streets of LA, investigating a lead to an underground murder...


	2. Antiques, 3

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

* * *

1: Antiques, 3

* * *

Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

"He's too goddamn fast," was the first and last, anxiously whispered thing he had heard from them, before the urgency of their silent chase escalated, and the words broke into harsh breaths and lightning-quick, light footsteps.

There was something almost unnatural about the pursuit even from the onset, Leland Greene reflected as he ran, gun poised before him at the ready. It was unnaturally difficult, and when he heard the voices with his uniquely sharp ears and came to the frightening realization that his coming was no surprise, nor an inconvenience, he was struck by the fairly alien feeling of _fear_.

The day started out normally enough. A Monday, of all things, which had always been hellish for as far back as he could remember. Ever since someone thought to name the day there had been someone around to complain about it. It was an ancient, inarguable truth.

_He bought two cups of Starbucks coffee, as usual. The line was long, and there was an old lady in front of him who had a thick, exotic accent that no one could understand, and she was asking for something very specific. The man behind him moved to the other long line, and got his order before Leland could even touch his counter, as the old lady was still there. Fairly annoying, startlingly normal occurrence._

_He brought said two coffee cups to his office, where he arrived uncharacteristically late. His partner of almost a decade was waiting for him, scowling. Leland offered Rafael Montes the cup of coffee, which he declined wordlessly and with a fair amount of hostility that was his norm toward Greene nowadays._

_Leland took the rejection calmly, with a measure of irritation, but mostly regret. The last few weeks have been harsh for Montes, he knew. They were friends of incredibly long-standing, and Leland was trying his hardest to give him the time he needed to realize his anger at Leland was deeply and profoundly misplaced._

_"My goddamn transfer is taking too goddamn long," Montes said, blanching at the coffee he had bullied from someone else._

_Leland's instinctive feeling was that of vexation and indignation. Montes' words, and the last few weeks of strained interaction between the two former-friends was enough to court a princely temper this Monday morning._

_"That's probably because," he snapped, "Blaming me for Julianna's death couldn't have been regarded as a logical reason for a request that the captain or anyone in a decent frame of mind would accept."_

_"In not so many words I just told them I can't rust you," Montes said, simply, hurtfully, and Leland suspected with an aching heart, quite truthfully._

_"Because she's dead and I'm not?" Leland asked, his voice rising, "That my friends are not?!"_

_"We've had this conversation before," Montes said, pushing his way past Greene. The blond grabbed him by the arm and looked at him closely._

_"We'll have it again," Leland insisted._

_Montes stared at him, "You've always been smarter than me. Better, and smarter. But damned if you're going to treat me like I'm a stupid ass here. I know something is going on. I've always known--"_

_"You've always known something was going on," seethed Greene, "It has nothing at all to do with your wife."_

_"Yeah well," snapped Montes, "I find that hard to believe, especially since lately, I find anything that happens anywhere has you and your friends right in the middle of it. That last time, it happened right in my goddamn backyard, and now she's dead. You are in the middle of the mess that got her killed, Greene."_

_"What did you want me to do, Montes?" Leland asked, "Whip the cure from my ass?"_

_Montes' face turned a deep shade of crazily angry red, and then Leland's own offended anger began to vanish, leaving this awning, reluctant, inescapable... nothing._

Montes would have hit him, he knew, if Montes were a lesser man. But he just walked away, and then they worked themselves to the ground the rest of the day, barely speaking, work that included taking that unidentified caller who knew far too much than he should have about, and offering even more information on, an open case.

And then the running started, and it began to take the shape of a set-up.

The 'informant' they had met peered at them from the shadows of their warehouse meeting place and shot off like a rocket. Greene, who was always the better runner, took off after him at a dead run. Montes followed after a breath, but it was not at all long before the man's heavy, running footsteps faded further and further behind Greene and the man he was pursuing.

"He's too goddamn fast," the runner gasped, likely to accomplices listening in on a comm device.

He twists, he turns, Leland follows the shift. The set-up seemed professional, and he was following like a fool but he could hardly just stand still and watch him leave.

"Montes," Leland said over his own digital radio as they burst from out the warehouse's back door, "Call for back-up."

"They're calling for back-up," Leland's elven ears heard, another voice, from somewhere...

_They couldn't have heard me_, he thought, thinking their own devices were being monitored, _What is this..._

His prey jumped a wire fence, landed neatly, crouched on two feet, graceful as a cat. Leland followed suit, practically jumped right on top of him, except he dodged cleanly and started running again, towards a dark alley. Just beyond the narrow way was a well-lit, busy, noisy street.

_People_, Leland thought, quickening his pace, _I could lose him. Worse, he can hurt others._

"He's too goddamn fast," the runner said again, "You have to hit him now!"

Leland stopped dead in his tracks. Instinctively, his ears strained for the sound of a released bullet, hoping to dodge it, knowing nothing else of the situation.

The sound that followed was so deceptively soft, and unexpected.

_Arrow?_, he thought, belatedly, as it was not a sound he'd heard in _ages_.

A slim dart made it's way to his neck.

Stunned, he took a step back before tearing it from his skin, horrified. He pocketed it for investigation later, as he ducked behind a large trash can for cover. His eyes roved the area. He quited his breaths, tried to ease the pounding of his heart.

_Come out, come out, _he thought, seeking a sound, a scent, a breath of movement. He had never been the prey, not like this, _never_...

"Greene!" Montes barked at him over the radio, and he dodged as another arrow made its way toward his head.

"I copy, you've called for reinforcements?" Leland asked him in a low voice.

"Yeah, you got him?" Montes asked.

"No," Leland replied, hesitating for a moment, "I think they're trying to get us. And they're listening in."

"What?" Montes exclaimed.

"Watch out," said Greene, "It's a set-up, they're trying to get us, and I think they bugged us." He grimaced, editing the part where they had tried to stick him with a dart and whatever they may have coated it in.

_Or succeeded, that is, _Greene reminded himself. Either way, he was unconcerned for himself. Whatever it was, it should have, at the very least, a profoundly diminished effect on the eleven physiology.

Greene was getting deeply and profoundly annoyed, however, when he noticed that he may have been mistaken about the potency of that thrice-damned dart. His fingers felt cold, and heavy. They felt thick and numb and unmanageable, and if he did not look to see they looked quite the same as before, he would have sworn they were swollen, or, or _detached_!

"What do you want?" Leland Greene called out to his hunters, the sound of his own voice feeling loud and hollow to his ears.

_Potent stuff_, he thought, almost dejectedly.

"We are LAPD," Greene added, "You called us in. We can protect you, if you help us. If we get into some trouble here, I guarantee you it will be much, much more than you can handle."

Another dart whizzed past him and his can/shield. And another caught one of his dull, unresponsive hands. He muttered a curse and tore it off with some difficulty.

_Potent stuff_, he thought again, tossing his head from side to side, clearing his head. He could feel his heart beating slower, much slower than his more standard, healthy, warrior's calm.

"What do you..." he drawled at his potential captors, finding his tongue as thick and dull as his useless hands. He gulped, "What do you want?"

_Damn it_, he thought, thinking it might be wise to disclose his situation to Montes more... _um_...concretely.

"Montes," he struggled through his comm radio, "They hit me with something."

"Where the hell are you, Greene?" his partner asked, concern evident even in his raised, irritated voice, "Where are you hit?"

Leland gulped, "Alley out back. They have a clear view of us from somewhere. Don't go out here. I'm trying to find a way back in, or out somewhere else. They're trying to get us."

"Hang on," Montes commanded, "I can hear the sirens, back-up's close."

_I can't hear anything_, Leland wondered. He looked back at the wire fence and the warehouse beyond it, and then at the alley he was in. The man he was chasing had already vanished into the city crowd.

_Damn_, he thought. He looked up at the dark windows on the upper floors of the two buildings lining the alley he was in.

_I'm a sitting duck_, he deduced, and his cover would not do at all. All his shooter/s had to do was move to another window for a better angle.

His fingers tingled, and his feet were fast becoming numb also. His reactions were slowing, though his thoughts remained sharp.

_Whoever is after me_, he concluded by the slight break he was getting in the dart-barrage, _is repositioning his aim._

_I'm losing consciousness_, he also suspected, _If I drop here, they will get me_.

He looked behind him at the fence. He couldn't climb it, not like this. He looked at the alley, where the man he was pursuing had run and vanished into.

_People_.

_Help_, he concluded.

_Now_.

He pushed to his feet, and staggered as he ran forward. More darts sprayed behind him. He dodged, or swayed, _whatever_, as long as they did not hit, he was satisfied. He pushed forward, toward the street, toward the lights and the sounds and the _people_, where he would be safer.

He stumbled out onto the street and into the path of hot, glaring lights. A horn sounded, and tires screeched, and the dull sound of metal barreling ruthlessly against flesh broke into the night.

He knew what had hit him, by the gods, did he know. These sounds created an algorithm that was distinct and unmistakable. He just did not think it was a fair.

But it was, he reflected, a perfect cap to a Monday gone appropriately sour.

* * *

_Roanoke Island, Virginia_

_The New World_

_1585_

* * *

_Sight returned though he did not expect it, nor, after his other senses returned and flared with it, did he want it._

_Legolas was thirsty, and weary to the core of his bones. His body ached, and he attributed this primarily to having been battered and tossed around by the water that still bogged loosely around him, and probably from not having moved in hours._

Or days, _he thought wryly, shaking his arms, wet sand clinging to his clothing. He looked up blearily at the beach he had washed upon, extremely grateful for at least reaching some form of land._

_He smirked a little, and his heart started to beat a little bit faster. _

I'm back_, he thought_.

_He turned his head to the left, noting that wherever it was the waves have brought him was not his targeted area. The foliage was wilder, untamed and unfamiliar. It was much warmer also. But at least it was Middle Earth, and likely all he needed was someone who could point him in the right direction._

I'm back...

_He turned his head to the right, and frowned upon a man staring at him and sitting on one of the elven chests he had brought with him on his (_now shattered_) ship for his journey. The weathered old man had clear, penetrating eyes, a narrow, sharp gaze, and a small, stern mouth. The hair color, he could not see from beneath the hat._

_Legolas cleared his throat and pushed himself up to his knees. _

_"I beg you stay still," the old man said, pointing an odd, long, vaguely L-shaped steel and wood contraption at him. Legolas deduced it was supposed to be threatening, from how the man wielded it with unabashed confidence and control._

_Legolas opened his hands in a non-threatening manner, "I was told that things have changed from when me and my kind were last seen here. I do not know what it is you expect of us, but I guarantee you I am no danger to you."_

_The old man's brows furrowed. He was obviously confused about what Legolas had just said. "I saw your ship during the storm days ago, just after we docked here. We watched it break on the rocks. I did not think I would find anyone alive. But it is just as well. Spies are to be shot."_

_Legolas' eyes widened, "I am no spy!"_

_"Your manner of speech is like my own," the man continued, "But I looked among your things and found art and writing that looked as if it had Moorish influences. Spain," he said heavily, "and the Moors are heavily connected."_

_Legolas must have looked bewildered. "I am Legolas Greenleaf, an elf-prince of the Greenwood Realm. I know not of what you speak."_

_"Elf, are you," the man asked, his eyes glinting, mocking, "And a prince too! Well if we are dreaming we might as well reach for the stars, eh, lad? Of course you are an elf-prince. Why did I not think of that? For that matter, why did I not think to sprout wings and simply return home to England?"_

_"You mock me and I wish to know why, or to have your sincerest apologies, at the least," Legolas told him, coldly, beginning to rise up to his feet._

_"You will stay still, spy!" the old man ordered, waving his odd weapon._

_"I will have the respect you owe," Legolas retorted._

_"I owe nothing!" the man exclaimed, before pointing his weapon to the ground near the elf's feet, and pressing upon one of its odd levers. The ground near Legolas... _exploded_, for lack of a better term, making him jump back._

Interesting_, Legolas thought, darkly._

_"That was uncalled for," Legolas told him, coolly._

_"You will come with me and see my Captain," said the man._

_Legolas tilted his head at the fiery old fellow. "If he exercises better judgment than you, then I should be much obliged."_

_"If my judgment were better," said the other, "I'd have shot you where it counts."_

_"If your judgment were better," Legolas retorted, distractedly straightening out his clothes and patting down his hair. He tucked the golden strands framing his face behind his elven ears, "You would treat me more fairly. I only once ruled upon these lands before, it could not have been too long ago. If you were better read, perhaps, more knowledgeable of your own history. But well. That is neither here nor there. Show me to him--"_

_Legolas stopped dead, when he noticed that all antagonism had left the man's face, to be replaced by a look of fear, awe, and just complete and utter disbelief._

_"Elf," the old man said, breathlessly._

_"That is what I have been saying," Legolas said, frustrated, "I just need you to lend me a horse, I can pay in gold or mithril, but I will need one. And I need you to tell me where I am precisely, that I might make my way to Ithilien."_

_"An elf," the man repeated, appearing quite stuck with the thought. He peered at Legolas' ears some more, "Or perhaps a birth defect of a sort. I have always been a rational man..."_

_"What are you babbling about, man?" Legolas asked, impatiently, "Where are we? Which way might be best to Ithilien or Gondor, and would you sell me a horse?"_

_"If you have gold I would love it," the man replied, cautiously, "We are in Virginia, and I know not of these places that you seek."_

* * *

_The old man led him to a small wooden lodge, a few steps into the forest that lay beyond the sandy shore. He said his name was Davenport, and that he should not worry about the belongings he arrived with, for there was _no one _on this part of the island but the two of them._

_"Virginia," Legolas echoed, trying to recall if he had ever heard of such a place in any of his travels. And he and the dwarf had traveled a lot._

The dwarf_, he thought, before eliminating the memory completely. He had to focus. If he were to find his way to Ithilien from this strange, unknown place, he needed to concentrate. It must be far, especially if the man had never heard of his land before._

_The wooden cottage was sparsely furnished, incredibly clean, though it felt lived in, still. Legolas saw a desk, a bed, and a night stand bearing tiny portraits of a country house and a beautiful woman. There were also quite a number of books here and there. The man had the habits of a voracious learner._

_Davenport rolled out a map on his desk, as Legolas drew out his own map from his coat. He had it coated in wax, such that it remained dry even with the onslaught of the sea and Manwe's winds._

Punishing winds_, he thought wryly, the winds that have brought him here out of his stubborn desire to go back to Middle-Earth from beyond its glorious circles._

_Man and elf frowned, as they set the maps side by side. Legolas turned over his small map, trying to find an angle where his Middle-Earth could possibly fit._

_Davenport's map was wide and gently watercolored in hues of blue and pink. The blue he assumed to be water, surrounding several chunks of oddly-shaped land masses. In bold Westron, he saw a large parcel of land labeled "EVROPA," another to its right read "ASIA," slightly beneath the middle of these was "AFRICA," and to the left of all these, a bit less connected to everything else, was "AMERICA- Die Nieve Weld." _

_"Odd," the elf murmured, wondering if they had changed the names of the countries, but finding even in terms of the shape of the land, his Middle Earth was nowhere to be found._

_"We are here," Davenport pointed to 'AMERICA,' "The New World, you see?"_

_"These maps are accurate?" Legolas asked._

_"I am a sailor," said Davenport, "There are certain inaccuracies, we are still seeing the length of the world. The Queen is aggressively forming and reforming how it looks in my mind. But essentially, cartographers from all over the world have agreed this is a fair portrait of the world." Davenport reached for the elf's map, studied it a bit, "This looks quite dated, doesn't it?"_

_"I spent perhaps centuries in Aman," said the elf, "I did not keep track of time. There was no reason why anyone there should keep a map of Middle-Earth and so it is old, one from when I was a soldier, long ago."_

_"You were a soldier?" asked Davenport, looking him over skeptically. _

_"I commanded my kingdom's army," Legolas murmured, studying over the maps, "You have truly never heard of Ithilien?"_

_"No, for which I am sorry," said Davenport._

_"How about Gondor? Arnor? Rohan? Imladris? Greenwood? Even Mordor, perhaps, I just need a point of reference," Legolas added._

_"I have never heard of these places," Davenport replied, watching his face carefully, "And I doubt anyone can tell you if I could not. Aside from the fact that we must go to the other end of the island to consult with my fellows, I count amongst the most learned of them, if I may say so. I am quite convinced that you are utterly mad, or profoundly lost. The fact that you have the appearance of an elf compounds matters more. Perhaps you are a ghost. Or _I _am utterly mad."_

_"I _am_ an elf," Legolas insisted._

_"Are the places you seek elven realms?" Davenport asked._

_"Not since we left it," the elf replied, "But there would be books, writings. Someone would know if the names of our kingdoms were changed. Or..." he glanced doubtfully at the maps, "Where they _went_, at least. I believe I am profoundly lost."_

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Profoundly Lost

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

Hi gang... thanks very much for the c&c's... will be getting into more details on that later. I just thought I'd share chapter 2 first. anyway... hope you're still with me. This will be insane again, haha. I hope you know how grateful I am that you're sharing your thoughts on how things are going. 'TIL THE NEXT POST!

* * *

2: Profoundly Lost

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

_Sight returned though he did not expect it, nor, after his other senses returned and flared with it, did he want it._

The world was in children's watercolor, and the sounds came in echoes, and he suspected that though there were people around him, he heard the sounds last.

"Oh god, oh god!"

_Ah, the poor driver_, he deduced.

"He came out of nowhere!" the driver cried.

_I'm sorry_, Legolas thought, dryly. He wished to voice it. Yet found neither strength nor strong inclination to do so.

The driver fell to a knee beside him, felt for his pulse. The driver was young, probably just started driving. Probably got his license yesterday if he was one of those lucky guys who just happened to have things happen to them.

_Like me_, Leland thought, sickly. His body hurt. He hoped everything was still attached.

The young man pulled his shaking hands away from Leland's neck, probably unable to tell the pulse from his own shock-y trembling. He wrung his wrists, muttering, "I can't feel anything. Fuck. But I think he's alive. I think he's fucking alive..."

_And listening_, Legolas thought_, You have a dirty mouth_.

The young man picked up his cellphone. In a single breath he said, "Hello911?IthinkIhitsomeone."

He opened one eye, which was blurry, and inadequate. He opened his other, but this one was red-obscured. His only working hand trembled, as he raised it to clear the blood from his eyes. He was on the ground, his cheek pressing against the road.

_I have to get up_, he thought, feeling unsafe. With a grunt, he pressed, shaking, at the ground, and pushed himself to stand. The pain was surprising, it felt as if something was burning him from inside, fighting to get out. He gave a pained, determined cry, releasing not just sound, but blood that flowered from his already-bleeding mouth. He made it to unsteady feet.

"He's alive--!" the kid was saying to the operator, before he turned to Legolas in alarm, "Wait! Please! Where are you going?!"

Legolas wished he could laugh, and thought he was about to do so when a windy urge bubbled from his chest. He believed he coughed instead, and the kid paled all the more, when he stumbled, sank to his knees, and then went back down to the ground.

"Fuck!" the driver exclaimed to his operator, "He's vomiting blood!"

_Not good_, Legolas decided, as he lifted his head to find a dark figure emerge from the alleyway he had just left. The man's long strides were quick, vaguely panicked, but still fighting to maintain a professional cool.

_Not good_, he thought again, as the tall, slim man came up behind the blubbering young driver. The man fished at his sidearm...

_Behind you_, Legolas struggled to say, as he struggled to move. The only result of all his efforts was an unintelligible "Ugh."

"It's all right, it's all right," the driver told him, "I called for help, all right? They're coming. I'm soooo sorry."

"I'm a doctor!" a passerby jogged over, trailed by a few other curious onlookers. Legolas watched, equally menaced and relieved when the man from the alley set his jaws in displeasure as his witnesses multiplied, and stepped back and vanished into the crowd.

A woman's face hovered over his. She looked like a doctor, he reflected. She looked clean, intelligent and calm.

"Squeeze my hand if you can hear me," she said to him.

He strained to do as instructed, unsure if the effort bore fruit. His hands were numb long before the accident. But women who looked and talked like that must always get the things they wanted. He blinked at her too, just to be sure she got some kind of a response from him.

"All right," she smiled at him grimly, "All right."

She felt his pockets for his wallet. She found it and the badge.

"That explains the gun," she murmured, "Detective Leland Greene. I thought you looked familiar. Type AB. The paramedics are going to need this."

The world began to fade as Montes burst into his narrowing view.

"Damn it, Greene," he...said, Legolas supposed, though he heard nothing, and could only see his old friend mouth the words, "Damn it all."

* * *

There was a funny, blitzed cloud hanging over Doctor Adrian Aarons the last few weeks. His steps had the spring of a thousand years, and he was smiling as if he was being trailed around by rainbows and sunshine.

He had the look of either a madman, a man having just come from the jaws of death, or a man who was sleeping with a supermodel. Or all three. The latter two were surely true. Things were finally coming together for him.

He walked along the hospital corridors. Some would have sworn he was humming, though this he did turn down the cheer as he passed by the waiting areas of the hospital, where glum relatives of the sick and injured were sitting around quietly, trying to distract themselves by watching the news from the television mounted on one corner of the hall.

He spared them a glance, as he walked to the nurse's station and left a sheaf of folders with the woman manning the desk.

"You look good, doctor," she beamed at him.

"I'll look even better after I punch out," he replied with a smile, "I'll be on my way home in a few minutes."

He tapped smartly and excitedly at her desk, before turning away and heading for the elevators. A colleague waited beside him.

"Hello, Sandy," he greeted her with a grin.

"Adrian," she looked him over with her keen, observant eyes. He bore the look lightly, as it was one he'd been getting a lot lately, "I heard you almost died."

"I am a ghost," he said gravely.

She laughed, "You look good, really. We were all very worried. I'm glad. I also heard you had a pretty nightingale looking after you."

"Isn't that lucky?" he asked her, smiling again.

"Not for her," she chided him, as the elevator doors opened. He stepped aside to let the occupants exit before moving to go inside. A distracted occupant, however, bumped right into him.

"I'm sorry--" Adrian said quickly, before realizing he was looking at Rafael Montes. He stopped dead in his tracks, as the detective looked back at him with haunted eyes.

"Adrian?" Sandra inquired of him. She was holding the elevator for him.

"Go ahead," he murmured, as he stared at Montes' face.

The detective wasn't going to be the first to talk. He looked deeply troubled, Adrian observed, a man uncertain of the proper way to look at the world. He looked vacant and uncertain.

"Detective?" Adrian asked, "Can I help you with anything?"

"We took an informant's call," Montes said, averting his eyes, "It was a set-up."

_Dear gods no..._

"We...?" Adrian whispered.

"We had a runner," Montes continued, "So Greene ran too. I got left behind, which happens fairly often if it's the two of us... Greene said they wanted us. He said they hit him with something. But he wasn't shot or anything."

"What happened?" Adrian asked.

_Get to the point, is he alive...?_

"Dumb-ass got run over by a car," Montes spat out, "Kid was fresh, heavy on the accelerator, and said he came out of nowhere. Probably going after the damn runner, or running from the set-up, I don't know. He got hit."

"Where is he?" Adrian asked.

"They said he was bleeding inside," said Montes, "He's in surgery--"

Adrian left it at that, broke into a run as he pushed the door to the stairwell, up toward the operating wing.

He skidded to a stop at the board detailing the day's operations. He read it through like a madman, found Leland Greene's room, and washed his hands and slid into his scrubs in a rush, before bursting into the theater.

No one had noticed. The machines were bleeping in a mad panic, and there was a hushed, nervous rush about the room as the doctors and nurses fought to silence it by keeping their patient alive.

"Glenda are you sure that's what the ID said?" a doctor asked a nurse who was reading and re-reading the contents of Greene's wallet.

"Yes, yes," she said emphatically, "AB, see?"

Adrian's eyes shot to the bag of blood hanging over the patient, dangling over everyone's heads.

"Remove that," he said in strained panic, pushing people aside. He disconnected the IV from the bag himself, and glanced at the indications on the machines, before looking at the deathly still and pale face of his injured friend.

"Doctor Aarons!" his colleague protested, "This is my OR!"

"Then contact the police department and check the man's file, not just the ID," Adrian retorted, "I've treated this patient before, his religion does not permit transfusions."

_Though it sure as hell allows him to lie_, Adrian grimaced.

"And he's in acute hemolysis," Adrian grated.

_Which happens when the _profoundly _wrong blood type of a human is shoved into a lying elf's vein_, he thought, _Mellon-nin. How do we get out of this one?_

"AB, that's what both the bag and ID say," the doctor reiterated, "He's not supposed to be having these reactions just because he's religious and doesn't want the damn blood!"

"Doctor," one of the interns reported, "We have blood in the--"

"He's bleeding out heavier on the injuries," said another, "looks like DIC--"

"We're losing more pressure--"

"How much did he get?" Adrian asked a nurse. The colleague he had snapped at earlier was beginning to look like he was drowning.

"Almost... 1000ml," she replied.

"I'm taking over," he declared.

_Roanoke Island, Virginia,_

_The New World_

_1585_

* * *

_For a few pieces of Legolas' gold, Davenport let him stay in the cottage for a night or two, and helped him bring the remnants of his things that had washed up ashore into the house._

_"You've come a long way away from shooting a spy to helping a stranger," Legolas said, as they each took a side of one of the elf's chests and hauled it into the living room._

_"Well you look like an elf," grunted Davenport, "You surely seem to be as hardy as one and dare I say it, quite as fair as I would imagine one to be. I said I always have been a rational man, and it makes no sense for such a creature to wash up ashore, here of all places, one day. Perhaps you are from a tribe across the sea, I know not. But I am English and sailor enough to have seen more than a few odd things that can make me believe... sometimes."_

_"You truly know nothing of the Greenwood Elves?" Legolas asked, "Or those of the Golden Wood? Or any other for that matter?"_

_"There are certain spells that one does to summon an elf," said Davenport, "And you must waylay the elf and ask that he grant you a wish."_

_"If any such elf exists I know not of him," Legolas said, primly._

_"Elves can injure, elves can bless," Davenport continued, "Mostly they keep to themselves, as the story goes, make beautiful things, occasionally bring it upon themselves to create mischief. I heard about a playwright at home who depicts them as extremely little."_

_Legolas frowned, "This is all that you know of elves?"_

_"Legend and lore," affirmed Davenport, "But you stand before me, and I wonder if you be a curse or come to grant me a wish."_

_"Neither," Legolas sighed, "Though some have said, perhaps, the former."_

_Davenport dropped his end of the chest, apparently taking the self-deprecating statement very seriously._

_"I jest," Legolas clarified, "I jest! I do not know why the gods have brought me here. I know for a fact I asked to be elsewhere. And... that perhaps I have a grotesque sense of humor."_

_"That you have," agreed Davenport, picking up his end of the chest again, as man and elf headed up thus to his house._

_"So you have decided I am no spy?" Legolas asked._

_"The Spanish armada would not have hired one who sounds so insane," Davenport decided, "Unless you are a spy driven crazy by the sun and the sea."_

_"Then what do you think of me?" Legolas asked. He wanted to ask also who in the world the Spanish are but he decided it would fit better in a different occasion._

_"I believe you are lost," Davenport said, "As you say that you are. I saw your face as you looked upon these maps that made no sense to you. And your things do seem... otherworldly. You are not from my home, and you are not from here. But well, you must be from somewhere."_

_"I am from somewhere," muttered Legolas, "But it matters not, for now. Now I just wish to know where I should be headed."_

_

* * *

_

_They shared a light dinner of mildly spiced broth, and Legolas managed to find and dry some pieces of _lembas_ that he assured Davenport would be very much worth in nutrients and sustenance what it lacked in flavor, which had been the favorite critique of his older traveling companions. The old sailor agreed, on both counts, and had a small slice._

_"That would come in handy on travel," Davenport said, watching Legolas' face, "So. You have eaten and taken drink. I wonder if it has eased your mind."_

_"My story remains the same," Legolas insisted, "I am Legolas, of the Woodland Realm. A prince of Greenwood, and once Lord of the elven colony in Ithilien. I am an elf!"_

_"How did you come to be here?" Davenport asked._

_"The elves are the First Born," Legolas explained, "There were countries of elves. We lived and died alongside men, in Middle Earth. Centuries ago, my kin began our exodus to our promised paradise in Valinor. It was the end of our time here. I was amongst the last to sail away, beyond the circles of the Earth. I decided to come back."_

_"You are insane," said Davenport, gruffly, "Only fools leave paradise for here."_

_"A good friend of mine died," Legolas said, quietly, "It ceased to be so." He laughed, a bit sadly, "He was a dwarf, if you must know. Centuries ago, there were dwarves too. Gimli the Dwarf, a hero of the War. I was also great friends with Aragorn, who was one amongst the greatest of Kings. Much was written about them. Much was written about me too. But you do not know any of us. Now I do not know... where anything is. I've never even heard of... of Virginia."_

_"Named for our Virgin Queen," said Davenport, "Elizabeth, the Queen of my England, which lies a sea away. In an effort to strengthen our territories, and have a good vantage point against Spain, we established a colony here, in the New World. Some of us were left here to ensure the claim to the land, loosely clustered in strategic areas, as we await supplies and more colonists from England."_

_"So that is what you do here?" Legolas asked, "You wait?"_

_"Once in awhile the natives would come," he said, "We do some commerce, but the situation is volatile. There are fights, at times. Much more than an old man would prefer. This was their land first, you see."_

_"And there is war with this... this Spain too?" Legolas asked._

_"Yes," replied Davenport._

_"And they are human, like you?" he asked, "Man fighting man?"_

_"There is no one else to fight but," Davenport said, "No dwarves and elves, not since for ever, remember? Legend and lore? Just men."_

_"You cannot be serious," sighed Legolas, mournfully, "We have helped bring peace here, long, long ago."_

_"I do not know what to tell you," Davenport said, simply. _

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

United States of America

* * *

Alone in his office, Adrian Aarons made a call to the only being in the world who could be of any help to him.

"Ada," he said, wearily, to his adaptive father, "Something happened."

"Estel," Elrond breathed, speaking to him in their natural Elvish, 'Is it Arwen?'

'No,' Adrian replied, shifting languages, 'No. It's the Elf.'

'What happened?' Elrond asked, concern coloring his voice.

"He got into an accident," Adrian explained, "Someone was after him. He bled inside. A Good Samaritan read his ID, which was of course fabricated, and told the paramedics he needed a particular type of blood. They gave him human blood."

'It has never been done before,' Elrond murmured, wondering what a Good Samaritan was, though he decided not to ask. It did not feel very relevant at the moment.

"Elven physiology is like a human's, I observed this before," Adrian said, "But the genetic makeup... Structurally we are the same, but the fabric that makes us is different."

"I understand," Elrond said, urging him to continue.

"I was not surprised when his body reacted in the same way a human body would react given an incompatible blood type," said Adrian, "Antibodies in his blood fought the transfused blood. The blood was partly destroyed, releasing what is in effect, a kind of poison to his body. Organs already battered by the accident that brought him here, are even more severely damaged now. Nothing would clot, he bled out heavier, I barely left him anything when I closed."

"And now?" Elrond asked, after a long, quiet moment.

'He's limping along,' Adrain said, careful to use illustrative terms over highly medical ones. While he and his father were both doctors, their language and training were obviously vastly different.

"He's alive," Adrian continued, "The initial injuries were bad, _Ada_. Bad enough to kill most, without all the complications stemming from the mistaken operation. We put him on a lot of supportive care. We are helping him breathe, eat, we are doing his living for him. But I think...the kidneys are shot. The liver should follow soon. The lungs, not long after. And then everything else. And then the cursed grave. He is so severely _damaged_, _Ada_."

'Is he...dying?' Elrond asked in a low, careful tone.

"He died on my table twice already," Adrian admitted, shakily, running a hand over his hair, "I barely got him back. A more objective doctor would have let him go. I don't know."

A long pause.

"I'm..." Adrian hesitated, "I'm not sure if you are familiar with the process, but an organ transplant could be an option. When someone healthy dies, as, say from an accident, their organs can be harvested, to replace the damaged ones of those who may need them-- sick people, injured people."

"A fascinatingly logical solution," Elrond murmured, "Though not one explored by the elven race. We've... we've never had any need, after all."

"You can imagine the risks," Adrian said, "there are surely risks of incompatibility, between an elven body and a human organ. Not to mention the secrets they will discover by testing him to ensure that they get the best match possible. That is, if I can get him to the waiting list in the first place. They only allow transplants for the people who stand the best chances of survival, and who are listed first, since so many people are waiting to receive aid. His heroic status and popularity will undoubtedly aid him in getting listed and prioritized, even, but should we risk it in the first place? I do not know what to do..."

"You say he is on supportive care," Elrond said, "Can his elven physique weather this? Heal, and wait it out?"

"There is little left of that physique to fight anything right now," Adrian replied, "The heart that moves his blood, the lungs that give him air, the stomach that nourishes him, the liver and kidneys that cleanse him... nothing is working nearly well enough to aid the weakness of the others. And the moment one fails, the others will follow soon afterward. Nothing is working!"

_I guess he is dying_, his mind goaded him, with the answer he had been loathe to say. He guessed Elrond knew this too.

'I have to consider further,' Elrond said tightly, 'This is unprecedented.'

"Please just... just call me," Adrian said, hanging up.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. Boring and Ordinary

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

Hi gang,

Thanks so so so much for the c&c's! Here's one more chapter... hope you're still with me. Every comment is taken to heart and I'm so thankul that you;d take the time to read and review. Keep em coming if you can, and I'll try my best to keep the chaps comin too :) 'Til the next post!

* * *

3: Boring and Ordinary

* * *

Rome, Italy

Europe

* * *

Anatlia Craxi wore her scandalously-large, Elvishly-intricate diamond engagement ring on a slim _mithril _chain around her neck, instead of on her finger, for good reason. It was an effort to shield the prying eyes of the world from her reclusive, Elven betrothed.

The speculation around her was not new. She was burned by a gold-digger once. She thought there would be no one else. She was wrong. Elladan Peredhil blew her away, the very moment they met. He's been blowing her away over and over since-- his words, his actions, his touch, his _everything_. Even his elven secrets, for all of their good and bad.

Ana's hands drifted to her stomach, an action she's taken to doing since she found out she was pregnant. Still flat, thank the gods, though her indulgent mother told her that she would never really show, the girls in their family were not made that way. It was probably why Giovanna still looked slim and trim, even now that she was older.

If anything, Ana noted that she was becoming thinner, more gaunt. Food did not appeal at all, the morning headaches were a menace, and the miscellaneous aches that coursed through her body the rest of the day were just as irritating.

Still... work had to be done. Though her parents urged her to take a leave, she had no plans about making conjecture around her grow. If she was to protect Elladan's identity, and consequently that of the children they would have together, she should shed as little light as possible on her life.

Everything had to go on normally, for as long as possible. She even prevented Elladan from purchasing a condominium in Rome, to be near her. Here, in this city, they could not go anywhere without anyone knowing.

And so, the would-be father spent his days wearing out the carpet in Imladris as he paced worriedly, and as his twin brother goaded him. To distract himself, Elladan had taken to making more aggressive investments with the Peredhil's admittedly irrevocably healthy portfolio. He can try and waste his life and waste his money with gusto and still wouldn't see a third of that fortune _dented_. The elves were very good with their money. He also spent time on planning his wedding, something he had previously been trying to avoid.

Ana had paid out and released their wedding planner. The recent events involving the release of elven genetics in the modern world, combined with the heroism and celebrity of themselves and their friends, created risks of exposure of their secrets that were too strong to tempt. A quiet wedding, they decided. Friends and family only, no press, no announcement, nothing.

Marcelo, of course, was displeased. He did not like the idea of Elladan quietly making away with his daughter. He wanted a thousand witnesses. He wanted, Elrohir joked, all his hitmen friends to see the groom up close. But of course, Anatlia's will prevailed over her father's. She had to protect Elladan. More than that, she had to protect their child.

Paparazzi were waiting outside the coffee shop where she was meeting with her sister-in-law-to-be. Several of them were already trailing her, and this new bunch that must have been trailing Arianne Underhill were surprised and delighted to see her too. More cameras flashed as she pushed past them to enter the cafe.

Arianne greeted her with an affectionate hug at the door, and ushered her to a seat in the corner, away from all the flashes of light and questions.

They've met several times before, but Arwen just had that _effect_ on people. Anatalia pushed her hair back away from her face, and pursed her lips in an effort to appear presentable. The Evenstar made everyone feel under-dressed.

"Elladan told me this was your favorite cafe," Arwen told her with a blinding smile, "And that if anything can make you eat, it would be the _gelato_."

"An excellent assumption," Ana laughed, "I am so glad you are here with me."

"Work has been hellish," Arianne sighed, "You know I would much rather be with Aragorn in the U.S., but I made all these commitments, long before we met. I have every intention of taking a break soon, though. We haven't even gone on that long honeymoon yet. Vegas after the wedding was much too short."

"Not to mention the misadventures you encountered there," Ana chuckled in remembrance, "Dragging Pip Took home, and trying to convince him he can't take the casino to the courts for not letting him bring back that car he won in the slots because he used a fake I.D... not very romantic."

Arianne laughed, "It was a much better experience than if we had to pay off his gambling debts, which Merry laughingly told us to expect, at the start of the trip."

They ordered their food, and Arianne studied Anatalia's face closely. "So I am getting you to eat. My other mission is to get you to take a break from your job."

Ana sighed, "I can't. People are already talking. I cannot let them look into my life too deeply, anymore. I have Elladan's secret to protect. And now... that of our child's."

"Then lie," Arianne told her, "Say you're getting a nervous breakdown. Say you discovered you have breast cancer... something."

"Been reading the papers, have you?" Ana smiled, "I guess I can say those things. Many already believe they are true. But it will not end there, you know. Illness piques public curiosity, and creates sympathy and greater interest. Best to let them believe everything is boring, and ordinary--"

A rebellious photographer snuck inside the cafe, and took a photo of the two celebrities, before he was ushered away by the discreet security detail that trailed after Arianne and Anatalia.

"As they currently believe, eh?" Arwen asked her wryly.

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

Elrohir lorded over one corner of the expansive Imladris library, accosting the widest oak table and looking intently down at what was for all intents and purposes, a royal mess with a secret organization that no one could have been able to comprehend but him.

He drummed his long fingers against the table. He had gathered the wedding photographs from everyone who attended, and was assembling a scrapbook for Aragorn and his sister. He also made soft copies in compact discs that were randomly scattered over the surface of the table.

"What the hell is this?" he murmured, picking up one of the miscellaneous Pippin-shots, these off-focus photos from odd angles. He tilted his head, then tilted the photo.

"Ah!" he exclaimed triumphantly at his revelation, before frowning and tossing the photo on the discard pile. Halvor brought him a Diet Coke, which he accepted absently, with a murmur of thanks.

Elrohir picked up a candid photograph of his father with Adrian Aaron's mother. They were speaking animatedly, this lovely old woman who shared Arwen's face. She had less radiance and less light than the Evenstar, but she had more earth, and much more fire. She was beautiful even in old age, energetic, and unabashedly happy.

He set the photograph aside. His _Ada_ would want it.

He picked up another photo, and laughed in remembrance. Aragorn and his sister slicing the wedding cake.

The quickie wedding was held in your extraordinarily typical Vegas chapel, followed by a lavish reception in a pricey hotel ballroom. The hotel was only too happy to accommodate the admittedly sudden request upon hearing who the bride was, and who her guests were going to be.

"_The Rigares? Anatalia Craxi? Arianne Underhill?" The banquet head exclaimed._

They pulled out all the stops. The ballroom looked like a glorious Eden. The organizers had stripped the entire hotel, including its clubs and restaurants, of all its flowers. They even borrowed an award-winning college choir who were staying in the hotel during their tour to sing during the reception.

The only indication that everything was done in a hurry was the wedding cake. The newlyweds were ready to settle for a simple one-layer cake that the chef could still make, given the time constraints, until Mark Brandy, Pip Took, Sam Granger and a very sheepish Frodo Baggins said that they convinced an Asian couple who was also staying in the hotel and getting married the next day, to sell their fabulous six-tier cake.

_"Well done, my friends!" Gandalf had proclaimed, thrilled at their initiative._

There was, however, one telling catch: the cake was topped with the figure of a very distinctly Asian couple in traditional clothes, and one full side of the cake already had the couple's names and other felicitations in foreign characters.

_"We can kind of tilt the cake just so, for the pictures," Mark reasoned, "No one will be able to tell."_

Except the newlyweds were so blitzed they didn't care about tilting anything. They barely saw anything aside from each other. They had tons of thoughtless pictures next to that cake and captured all the worst of its errors.

He could imagine, say, Aragorn and Arwen in their fiftieth wedding anniversary, looking at that picture and wondering what in the world happened to the cake...

Elrohir picked up another photograph. Ah, the first dance. Lovely, lovely sight, except he could see his twin brother's dark scowl in the background. Elrohir had slipped the head of the college choir a bottle of Moet Chandon and said if they knew Joe Jackson's "Be My Number Two," there's more where that came from. He laughed, as the pianist picked up the first chords and the choir sang as if they've been practicing it for years.

_"Why is your brother scowling at you from across the room?" his mother murmured from beside him._

_"He does not appreciate the irony of this song," he replied gaily._

_"What is wrong with it?" his father asked._

_"The man singing is asking if the woman he wants could be his 'number two,'" he laughed, "You know, the second woman in his life?"_

_"Infidelity?!" his mother asked, shocked._

_"No, no!" Elrohir chuckled, "It's not a racy song at all, mother. He and Number One are through. For Estel, though, One and Two are the same. Isn't that funny?"_

_Celebrian looked at him blankly. He wished he had someone to share his appreciation for pop culture with. He glanced at his father. No help there either, of course._

_To appease everyone, he changed the song to "The First Time I Loved Forever." This was profoundly appreciated as a typical sort of wedding song all around. He decided to keep to himself, that the song was the theme to "Beauty and the Beast" back in the eighties. _

"I love weddings," he chuckled to himself. Naturally, he did not mind that after that little incident, Elladan had taken him off the music and entertainment committee for his own wedding.

_Although it was arguably _very_ entertaining_, he thought.

Elladan entered the library, and leaned his hip against one of the tables, arms crossed over his chest. "What are you doing?"

"I like pictures," Elrohir shrugged, "It's like capturing time on a piece of paper. Amazing stuff, this. Never got around to asking father if they had such things in Valinor. You look surly again, Daddy 'Danny."

Elladan did not like the nickname. He frowned. "Arwen called. My delinquent fiancée denied my request for her to take a leave, again."

"I am not surprised," Elrohir said, "You know how she feels about this thing. She's scared as hell. And she should be. All moms freak out raising kids in this world, much more a mom bearing a child born with the direst of secrets to keep. I was telling Legolas to relax, his secret's still safe, but we got out of that last incident by the skin of our teeth, and we all know it."

The rustling of robes and the quiet but urgent footfalls of their father alerted them to the arrival of Lord Elrond. He had a stern expression on his face, and he did not spare them a glance as he went straight for a section of his books. They watched him suspiciously, as his eyes and fingers raked across the volumes of elven literature.

"_Ada_?" Elrohir called to him, inquiring and slightly worried.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

Rafael Montes' pacing outside the ICU could almost match the beating of the heart monitor inside; erratic, low, unsure. Aragorn watched from the glass as he walked, walked back, glanced at the room, looked away, looked back. He had changed from his bloodied clothes, but the shower only made his look more severe; pale, and haunted all the more.

He made no effort at all to enter Leland Greene's room, something that Aragorn wondered about, in the few moments that he thought of things other than that of what to do about his desperately ailing friend.

He sat by the bed, gripping his friend's hand, murmuring assurances in Elvish, glancing at the machines and the readings and wondering about what happens next.

The monitor picked up, and the hand beneath his jerked, as if the other was waking.

Aragorn clutched at the hand tighter, and he rose from his seat and lowered his face over his friend's, to be in his line of vision.

'Legolas,' he called in Elvish, 'My friend, can you hear me?'

Clouded blue eyes sought that voice, as it had sought that voice times immemorial before. That voice had called him in battlefields, and healing wings, from the clutches of death, and in the haunting of his lonely dreams. The voice of a friend, one of very few, and one of the most treasured ones.

His eyes fluttered open, watered at the assault of lights, and then at the pain that he suddenly realized was engulfing him. His body started to tremble, and his mouth opened to release a low, quaking cry. Eyes closed again, as he sought to return to the dark and hide from his prevailing misery.

There were annoying, insistent sounds around him. Sharp, panic-inducing sounds that seemed to match his anguish, releasing the cries he could not...

The shock of the pain was killing him.

'Be still, old friend,' Aragorn ached to soothe him, but there too was carefully constrained fear in his voice. The man reached over Legolas' head, adjusted a few things on the IV's and the alarms of the machinery, as he called for a nurse.

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia

The United States of America

* * *

Brad Harding was new to the agency, so it was not such a surprise that he did not know any of those who died, not really. He looked ill-at-ease, out-of-place and uncomfortable. He jerked at the collar of his polo, for the nth time. It was a hot day, and the sharp European, tailored suit was stifling him.

Life was such a strange, strange thing. It can go quite quickly, a gift of the gods that could be wrenched from one's hands, without warning. There was a car accident. And then just like that, five people, just on the field doing a standard day's work, were snuffed out of the world.

He wouldn't have come to the service, except he was supposed to have been riding with them. Escaping the jaws of death by a hair (_again_...).

The coffins were lined up before the mourners. It was also, almost unfortunately, a fairly standard funeral. Flags and guns, as the deceased were government men, a lot of suits, a lot of blood-red roses, a lot of crying people. Some media, not a lot. Some kids, not a lot. The smell of the stirred soil, and the morning grass.

He did not have to know any of the deceased to feel distinctly depressed.

The service ended, and he walked away, toward his car, as many attendees did. He came a little bit late, such that he had to park a good walk away from the burial spot. The crowds thinned around him, the farther he went. In no time at all, he was more or less alone.

Someone was walking behind him, her high heels clacking on the gravel. He noticed that his car was the only one parked this far, and wondered if she was following him. He turned around to face her, and smiled slightly, in case she had nothing at all to do with him.

"Brad Greer," she said, without hesitation.

His smile vanished, as he began to wonder about what she could possibly want with him. She was in black, like most of the attendees. Her hair was in an aggressively neat chignon, a shade of deep brown that he's always appreciated. There were subtle streaks of highlights on her hair, matching the lighter near-amber of her light brown eyes. He wondered if they were real, as he stopped walking and waited for her to catch up to him.

"Yes?" he inquired.

"My name is India Clarke," she said, offering him her hand to shake, "I was wondering if you could answer some of my questions."

The name sounded familiar. It dawned on him that she was--

"Reporter," he hissed, pulling his hand away remembering her face on the news, "You people are vultures."

"Yes," she replied tentatively, "But also Ivan's sister," she said, reading his eyes, as he realized that he was speaking to a relative of one of those who died. The cautious and irritated expression on his face warmed in sympathy.

"I am very sorry for your loss," he said, sincerely.

She brushed this off with a quick nod. Her eyes held a stern kind of loneliness, very private, impenetrable sadness, but still no less tangible. He thought it would be much less unnerving if sh broke down and cried.

"I did not know him very well," he continued, "But I have seen that he's a good worker, very dedicated."

"He was murdered," she told him, flatly.

"I'm sure you're very angry," he said, uncomfortably, "Accidents like this can happen, and it would seem as if--"

"He was murdered," she insisted.

_Why tell me_? He wondered.

She read his eyes clearly enough, again. Not that she was particularly perceptive, though he guessed this was also probably true. He was just never very good at hiding his emotions.

"You stood there and didn't look worried at all," she nodded toward the place they buried her brother, "And I thought you should be."

"Why would that be?" he asked.

"He told me some things, just before he died," she shared, "He was very excited, you know. I sensed some fear, yes, some anxiety. But he was scientist first and foremost, and he was always like that, on the brink of something very ground-breaking in a case."

He put a hand to his wrinkled brow, frowning as he thought. He really couldn't quite understand what she was talking about...

"I'm sorry," she shook her head, "I've been... out of sorts. Lately. My thoughts. They're just all over the place. But the thing you should be worried about, right? That's probably what you'd want me to... focus on.

"You should be worried," she said, "Because, save for yourself, anyone in the CDC who directly handled the Ebola incident in LA a few weeks ago was in that car. Everyone is dead but you."

* * *

Patpong District

Bangkok, Thailand

* * *

_It was a tough job, but someone had to do it..._?

Goran sat, and watched from the windshield of the parked car, open-mouthed, as he watched the road before him. The night was lit by the neon of the red light district. The place felt as if it was just coming alive.

He should be upset, that Harding left him in the car to go do whatever it was these James-Bond-types were paid to do, and vanished into one of the bars, looking all friendly with the doormen and immediately cozying up to a fine feminine specimen.

Now, he was all for empowerment (demanding women who knew exactly what they wanted and how they could get it), and he did not like taking advantage of women. But he was not blind, and to look around him as one beauty after another paraded the streets, was most certainly a normal reaction, wasn't it?

"Goran, can you read me, over?" his comm bleeped.

"Loud and clear," he grumbled.

_Never can get a breath of a break from this guy..._

"Mission abort, over," Harding replied, so calmly Goran had to ask him again.

"What?!"

"Abort," came the abrupt reply, "You know what to do."

Yes, they have spoken about it before. A mission is compromised, and you walk away, as coolly and discreetly as you can. Meeting places are agreed upon, and that would be the rendezvous in case anything goes sour. It made sense at the time, of course. And of course he always sat through and agreed to the contingency plans. His confrontational warrior's instincts were making it impossible for him to leave, however.

"But..." Goran sputtered, "I have the car, I can wait, you're nearby--"

"We agreed," Harding told him, "Get out of there--"

The communique was cut.

"Harding?"

Silence. The comm was dead.

"Haldir?!" he exclaimed, as he shuffled inside the car, removing his seatbelt and unlocking his door, making to exit the car and go after his partner.

The passenger door beside him opened and shut so quickly he could hardly think, and then suddenly a stern-looking man in a beach shirt was sitting beside him, with a gun and a silenced barrel pointing at his face.

"Agent Goran," the American told him, "I would stay still if I were you."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	5. The New World

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

Hi gang!

This chapter will be the first foray of FEE3 into another experimental LOTR realm for me. I'm a fan of all things history (can you tell from my previous work haha), so looks like we'll be having a dose of historical fiction as a genre in this fic :) the first few chapters have already given hints, but this one will just take you straight up... and introduce one of my most favorite eras in history...Well fellow fans will know what the 1580's in England meant :)

Anyway, thank you so much for the c&c's... been having a lot of minor issues with my writing lately but I sometimes feel like I'm in a rush, haha... I apologize for the typo's and tenses and all... but I am trying my best to come up with something fun and original and also executed to the best that I can so I hope you'll stay along for the ride on this one because I'm telling you... FEE3 will be as much of a leap into a strange world as each of the previous FEE's have been and I can't predict how well it will be received.

But that will come in it's own time. For now, I hope you enjoy my fairly odd new chapter, and 'til the next post!

" " "

4: The New World

" " "

_Roanoke Island, Virginia_

_The New World_

_1585_

" " "

_"Do you know that you sleep with your eyes open?"_

_The elf's lips curved to an appreciative smile, as he came to a fuller, waking awareness. His gaze settled on the old man's face, looking at him thoughtfully from his bunk. The elf he let sleep on a mat on the ground._

_"It is not so odd, you will see," Legolas assured him, bringing his long arms up over his head in an indulgent stretch, "You know, Mister Davenport, as I laid awake here last night, I have resolved not to despair about my situation."_

_"That is always a good thing..."_

_"I need but a plan," Legolas stated, "Countries and histories cannot just vanish, can they? Someone will know of the places and the people that I speak, even as legends that they do not entirely believe in. All I need, are people to ask. And there are no people here, not really, are there? The first phase of my plan, therefore, is to find people to ask."_

_"The natives are a hopeless resource for information like that," Davenport guaranteed him._

_"I need people," Legolas said, simply, "I shall seek them out."_

_Davenport's eyes widened. "You most certainly will not! Our situation with them is volatile at best. You will get yourself killed!"_

_"I am certain you will find that I can take care of myself very well," Legolas' eyes narrowed at him, as if daring him to contradict._

_"I cannot have your death on my conscience," Davenport said, intently, "I too, have lain in the night in thought as I drifted to sleep. I have not discounted the possibility that you are addled, and... and quite helpless."_

_Legolas choked on a laugh, "Indeed! Think you so?"_

_"I grow in certainty the longer I know you," Davenport replied. Legolas found this funny too. He laughed as he rose to his feet, though his determined eyes did not share in the levity._

_"Natives," Legolas said, "I shall seek them out."_

_Davenport shuffled to his feet. "You most certainly will not!"_

_"It needs doing," Legolas told him, quietly, "I cannot impose upon you for ever, could I? And my gold will not last me long. I cannot remain so lost. I must know where I should go next."_

_Davenport stared at him, stunned by his conviction. "Blast."_

_"I shall leave my possessions with you," Legolas stated, "And return shortly..."_

_"I am coming with you," Davenport muttered, struggling into his boots, "I know some of the natives, and some of their language."_

_"Now I cannot have it in my conscience to endanger you..." Legolas said hesitantly._

_"You need me and you know it," Davenport said, "I was headed out anyways. To hunt. We are in need of provisions."_

_

* * *

_

_Davenport led the way to the thick of the forest. The ground beneath their feet was regularly trod upon, Legolas could tell, by the marks there. He guessed Davenport created the minor walkway and generally stuck to it._

_"This path," Davenport said to his companion, "Leads to fresh water and the settlement of a tribe that I encounter on a regular basis. I also follow this path when I hunt, for my meals." He lowered to a crouch, motioning for Legolas to do the same. His clear eyes were focused on grazing game._

_"Our requests for information," he whispered to Legolas, "Would be much more welcome with a gift, you see..." he took aim with his long weapon._

_"Let me," Legolas murmured at him, drawing out his elven bow and an arrow shaft. He was not much for hunting and dining on game, though he understood men's fascination for it, and their need for the nourishment. He shared more in his kin's appreciation and respect for all things that lived. It was also likely this respect that compelled him to offer his marksman's services, that the poor animal may not be subject to Davenport's horrid exploding weapon._

_He raised his arm for a careful aim, and released the arrow soundlessly. The shaft made its way between the boar's eyes. It fell to the ground, as its panicked companions scurried away._

_Davenport looked at him, impressed. "Good aim."_

* * *

_They instantly liked the look of him: aristocratic, ageless. He was just so beautiful. There was a host of great things that were unusual about him: his eyes were a stunning frosted blue, and looked at things and people with warm curiosity, and also with a cold imperviousness. They would look at him, and he would stare back, and stare longer, as if he had all the time in the world (because he did, actually). His hair was spun gold, his face was chiseled by what surely must have been a pair of godly hands. _

_They knew his companion fairly well, that stern old man from the shore. Davenport and his stunning companion would talk as they walked, and they noted that his voice was even and melodious, carefully accented._

_The children followed them as they walked, cheering at the game they dragged between them. Everywhere they passed, all movement ceased as eyes trailed after them. _

_They found the Chief standing by a small enclosure, looking quite smug as he watched a thundering, deep brown horse stomp angrily around it._

_"Chief Sequoia," Davenport greeted him with a slight bow._

_"Davenport," the large... _red_ man smiled at the Englishman. Everything about Sequoia was large; large eyes, large teeth, large head... He loomed over everything, made things around him seem quite small next to him._

_"I have come to present a friend of mine," Davenport motioned toward Legolas, "This is Greenleaf."_

_Legolas noted that Davenport spoke slowly, and with exaggerated body motions, apparently quite careful to be as understandable as possible._

_Legolas gave Sequoia a slight bow._

_"Not an English name," Sequoia remarked, "Greenleaf."_

_"He is not from England," Davenport said, "He is a lost traveler, and we have come bearing you a gift in hopes that you could answer his questions."_

_"Ah," Sequoia looked at the boar with naked pleasure, "Good. You may join me as I feast on it."_

* * *

_Sequoia and Davenport spoke to one of the women on food preparations in their native tongue, and Legolas turned to the restless horse on the corral. The horse was fuming mad and anxious, quite displeased about his capture. He snorted, and stomped, and shook his head in displeasure._

I know how you feel_, Legolas thought with a sigh. He leaned against his elbows on the wooden fence, looking the fiercely beautiful beast in the eye. The horse looked back, and considered him quietly, held tilted, its liquid black eyes devouring the stranger._

_Casually, Legolas picked up a fistful of grass from the ground, and, played with them absently as he looked at the horse._

_"We found him in the wild," Sequoia said, from behind him, "He thinks he has no master."_

_Legolas knew this from the onset. He adored the spirit of wild horses the best. The horse was still looking at him thoughtfully._

_'If you look at his eyes,' he said to the horse in his native Elvish, 'You will find he adores you. If you let him, he and you can lead charges together, as one.'_

_He wondered if the horse understood his ancient language; it was, after all, the language of the living earth, the words of the firstborn. Or perhaps it did not, and was just responding to the message conveyed by the tone, and the sincerity of the wielder. _

_The horse snorted at him. Legolas smiled slightly and shrugged. The horse stepped toward him, slowly, warily. And then it bowed its mighty head over Legolas' palm, opening its mouth ever so gently, careful of the elf's digits, as he ate at the grass._

_"Ha!" Sequoia exclaimed, in surprise._

_"Most uncanny," he heard Davenport murmur from behind him, "You are truly odd."_

* * *

_They could not answer his questions. The disappointment was astute, but he kept his determination, and found himself returning to the tribe for a variety of reasons, not least of all was that they seemed to have taken a liking to him._

_Sequoia had captured another horse in the wild, and was vastly appreciating the calming effect he seemed to have on the wild beasts. He rode in stunning bareback like the locals. He practiced and taught archery, and sword fighting with their painted warriors. He even knew a few tricks with an ax, saying with some compelling sadness that an old friend once taught him a thing or two. The children were imitating how he wore his braided hair, humming the strange songs he sang to himself as he worked. The warriors invited him on hunts and fishing, knowing they would be coming home with more stores if he was around. The women painted his face, and cooked him food that he barely touched._

_Davenport came with him often at the start, until, as Legolas guaranteed him, he discovered that the elf truly could take care of himself. The elf left in the early morning, and returned sometime midday with a miscellany of goods from the natives that Davenport never usually got for free. He did not at all mind, as the elf was never selfish.. He even drew freshwater for the house, and Davenport always woke to find their food and water stores replenished._

_In return, Davenport took it upon himself to orient the elf on the ways of the rest of the world. He said that Europe was much more civilized. They had intricate government structures, they had courts, and armadas, and international trade. Legolas listened intently. England as Davenport spoke of it sounded more like the world he had known-- kings and queens, palaces, armies, cities, books..._

_"I must go there," the elf resolved, "If anyone can answer my question, he would be there, don't you think?"_

_"No one can answer your questions, master elf," Davenport sighed to him, for the nth time, "No one in the known world can possibly know. But we concede that there are places in the world that are yet to be discovered. You are right... if anyone knows - which I must say once again that I truly doubt- then he would be living in civilized, Christian lands."_

_"Christian...?" the elf asked, unfamiliar with the term._

_Davenport's eyes lit enthusiastically. And he began yet another story._

* * *

_Tale after tale, the world began to take a firmer shape in the elf's mind. Davenport told him about modern trade and commerce, and he made calculations on how long and how far his gold could sustain him. He was not overly pleased._

_"I never had to worry about such things before," he admitted, wrinkling his nose. _

_Davenport barked a laugh. "I don't imagine so."_

_"But it will take me to England," Legolas pointed out._

_"And buy you a nice house in the country," Davenport added, "Where you can live off your land, and pay taxes. You can live a good twenty years on what you have, if you are careful. Perhaps more, if you part with some of your intricate treasures."_

_"I need more than twenty years," Legolas said, "I am immortal."_

_Davenport looked at him skeptically, and sighed. "Why am I not surprised to hear that?"_

_The old man taught the elf how to use a rifle. The shots he made were, for lack of a better term, inhumanly accurate._

_It was in one of their practice sessions that the first other Englishmen Legolas would meet arrived._

_The elf took aim at their makeshift targets. "We are not alone," he said quietly._

_"Hm?" Davenport inquired._

_"My ears are sharp in more ways than one, old friend," Legolas said, lowering his rifle and nodding toward a group of men who were strolling their way. He loosened his braids and shook his hair off, to cover his ears._

_"I say, man!" the middle-aged gentleman who led the group commented jovially, "Quite the shot you made there."_

_Davenport swallowed a bit nervously, and loosened his collar. His eyes were shifting, as if trying to find a good way to explain his odd companion._

_"Captain," Davenport greeted the well-dressed gentleman, "I would like to present to you an acquaintance of mine, ah... Legolas Greenleaf."_

_"Greenleaf?" the Captain asked, aghast, looking the elf over from the top of his very blond head down his very fair length to his toes, "A native?"_

_"Oh!" Davenport struggled, "Ah... not... quite. As you can see..."_

_"I was shipwrecked," Legolas piped in, deciding honesty was best, "Mr. Davenport aided me, and is helping me find my home."_

_"Oh most unfortunate," the Captain said, "Where might that be? You certainly look and sound like an Englishman."_

_"I seek the lands of Greenwood," Legolas said._

_"I've never heard of it," the Capatin puzzled._

_"Or Ithilien," Legolas added, "Or Gondor, for that matter, I simply need a point of reference. Have you over heard of Rohan, I wonder--"_

_"He hit his head," Davenport improvised quickly, watching the Captain's increasingly suspicious expression. Legolas looked at him indignantly. Davenport was encouraged._

_"Aye," Davenport continued, eyes widening as he surprised himself, "He hit his head in the shipwreck. The natives found him, and called him Greenleaf because they ah... found him ashore, amongst... leaves. And he cannot remember his real one or much else of where he is from. In my visits in the native tribes, I found him, and decided to help him return," he looked at Legolas pointedly, "to England, where he longs to go quite desperately."_

_Legolas' eyes widened, in appreciative understanding. He did want to go to England. Quite desperately._

_"A relief ship has just come," the Captain told Davenport, "A new group shall replace us, and we shall head out to sea and home to the Queen. That is why we sought you. We must gather supplies, trade a bit more with the natives. You seem to have a knack for that, Davie. I also brought a gentleman with me, one Mister Redknapp."_

_A thin, balding man from the back of the pack raised his hand and smiled sheepishly at them, "Hullo."_

_"I am putting him in your charge," said the Captain, "He paints a picture of the world, for the court. Show him a bit of the flaura and fauna, Mr. Davenport. Bring him to the settlements, show him the new world, that he may show others, when we finally come home. We are going home at last."_

_He turned his attention to Legolas, "I'm afraid, Mister Greenleaf, you must remain lost a little bit longer. With all aboard, and the supplies we need for the journey... I do not think we can spare the space."_

_"I can pay my place," Legolas said, "I really must go..."_

_"And he is a good hand in a ship," Davenport added, "And an excellent shot, should it come to that, sir. And it might, given the times."_

_"Ah, yes," sighed the Captain, "Tension with Spain, pirates, and all other undesirables on the seas. All right. He can come. But even with pay it is not a luxurious trip, I must warn you. And all hands must work some time."_

_"Captain, you will find I have never feared working," Legolas guaranteed him, stifling an excited smile, "We have an accord."_

* * *

_The Captain and his entourage left, and the elf, the artist and the old man headed up to the cottage bearing Redknapp's belongings. _

_"An interesting life you must have led, Mister Greenleaf," the little man huffed, as he and Davenport bore a trunk between them. Greenleaf headed the troupe, bearing two massive rucksacks with considerable ease. _

_"Once you remember it, that is," Redknapp added, hesitantly, "Shipwreck, natives...How odd though, don't you think? If you were shipwrecked just recently, and you just arrived here, now you are headed back home once again. To the sea, again... I am not much of a sailor, unfortunately. I got my sea legs just before we reached the shore. I will likely be sick again, on the return trip."_

_"I have heard that many suffer from that ailment," Legolas told him, turning to look at him in sympathy. _

_"I am certain Mister Davenport, seasoned sailor that he is, must have gotten his sea legs long ago," Redknapp said._

_"I enjoy the breeze and the openness of the world," Davenport shared, "The wood and the salt, and the sunsets. And the gulls... they sing an odd sort of music."_

_"I do not much like the sound of the gulls," Legolas confessed, quietly._

_"They squawk quite mockingly," Redknapp agreed, thick to the sound of longing loneliness that Davenport has come to recognize in his companion._

* * *

_Redknapp was an artist, with a deep curiosity and profound appreciation for the beauty of the world. It did not take him long to focus his eyes on the mysterious, golden stranger. His timidness vanished as he worked, a transition that Davenport noted, impressed. The sheepish man vanished beneath the clear, focused eyes of the artist as he stared at his subject, and the sure strokes of his pen on the paper._

_Greenleaf was packing his things out, under the sun. Evaluating them carefully, which to bring, which to leave, which ones to give to the children in the tribe he learned to love. Redknapp sat a fair distance away in the shade of a tree, drawing, with Davenport looking over his shoulder._

_"You have a gift, Mister Redknapp," Davenport observed._

_"Hm," Redknapp replied, distracted. He finished a stroke with a flourish, before turning his head toward Davenport and, reverting back to his old self, smiling sheepishly, "Thank you. Have you ah..." he rifled at the papers next to him, anchored from the winds with a rock, "Have you seen the one I made of you?"_

_Davenport took the sheet of paper, and smiled, "I look quite serious and grim."_

_"I sorely apologize if--" Redknapp was quick to say, reaching for the sheet of paper as if to tear it._

_"Oh no, no," Davenport laughed, pulling the paper away from his reach, "It is wonderful. And a truly accurate portrayal. I was speaking of myself, sir. Not of your work, which is a masterpiece."_

_"Thank you," Redknapp replied, shifting, still uncertain, "I am working on creating solo portraits, and then thereafter, base a sort of group portrait on these, and create a representation of the entire crew aboard the ship. I am hard-pressed to catch everyone still and all together, after all. I have resolved to catch individuals and then just compile them afterwards. I shall finish that soon."_

_"Very wise of you," Davenport commented._

_Redknapp smiled, and turned back to his work. Absently, he murmured, almost to himself, "I wonder where he is from..."_

_"Hm?" Davenport inquired, wondering if the eccentric was speaking to him._

_"He has considerable goods and property," Redknapp pointed out, "An aristocrat's look and bearing. He certainly speaks like a Royal, and has the arrogant, entitled bearing of one. He is highly educated, and trained in the fighting arts of a knight. I am an artist, I am observant. I have also been at court, and he has more blue blood than most people put together there. You know Mister Davenport, he will cause a stir when you bring him to England."_

_"How so?" Davenport asked, his heart pounding. He was only thinking of helping a half-mad stranger. Bring Greenleaf to his house, shelter him for a little while as he began his life anew. Greenleaf certainly had the talents and the resources to make something of himself. He just needed someone who could tell him about the world. Davenport imagined he could have a quiet, normal life._

_"Shipwrecked, forgetful, nameless man from the sea," Redknapp replied, almost musically, as he formed a story in his mind, "Who walks and speaks like a prince. He'd have caused a stir even if he were not so handsome. Which he also, incidentally, is..."_

_Redknapp frowned, since the golden-haired man he was watching glanced at them with an odd look on his face._

_"I say, Mister Davenport," Redknapp said, lowering his voice, "I could swear he is listening to us. But that is not possible, is it?"_

_"I suppose not..." Davenport hesitated, grinning as Legolas turned toward them fully, and let loose an open, unlikely, disarmed laugh._

_The wind blew at his hair, and even from the distance his eyes were the blue of a misplaced, bright-lit winter. Redknapp's artist's heart wished he could have captured the moment on paper._

* * *

_The three men followed Davenport's old path to Sequoia's tribe, Redknapp huffing behind the two seasoned trekkers walking in front of him, bearing his artist's tools. In the days he spent with the two gentlemen, it was not his first time in the tribe. Though the walk often exhausted him, the beauty of their exoticness drew him in again and again, and he trailed after Greenleaf and Davenport in all the trade trips they made to Sequoia's._

_"Their culture is very fascinating," he said, breathlessly, "It is much more developed than earlier writings give them credit for. What a culture. So rich. The art, the colors, the societal roles...I shall focus on the art of their homes, today. I think I have quite a lot of work on the people and their environs by now. But their tools, their art, I think I shall capture--"_

_Greenleaf stopped walking, and raised a hand up for them to be quiet and do the same. _

_"What do you sense...?" Davenport murmured at him._

_"It is what is not there that worries me," Greenleaf replied, "At this point of the journey we should already be hearing the children, and the conversations... life. There is noth--"_

_His eyes widened, and he turned to shove Redknapp's implements to him, before he shot forward toward the settlement, drawing out his bow._

_"Stay here," Davenport said to Redknapp, handing him more of his tools and readying his rifle, as he jogged after Greenleaf._

_"You jest!" Redknapp retorted, running after the old man and juggling his burdens, "I will not be left alone here!"_

_"Greenleaf!" Davenport called after the elf, "Not so fast, old friend!"_

_Legolas looked over his shoulder, slowed a little as he replied, "The tribe is under attack. There was a terrible silence, followed by cries..."_

_"I heard nothing..." Redknapp said, breathlessly._

_"You must calm," Davenport told him, "It is a normal occurrence."_

_"What?" Legolas asked, stopping dead in his tracks in confusion, brows furowed._

_"There are many native tribes," said Davenport, "They raid each other's homes, for territories, to settle disputes, at times only for sport. That is their way. Though they may be credited for some civility, this is the way of warriors too. This is not our fight. We have nothing whatsoever to do with this. We must turn back, lest we be caught in the middle. Englishmen make for excellent ransom or worse, highly satisfying slaves."_

_"You cannot expect me to walk away," said Legolas, indignantly, "Hearing all this--"_

_"I hear nothing..." Redknapp said, honestly, and profoundly uselessly._

_"They are crying," Legolas told Davenport, "I care not if it is their custom to try and destroy each other for whatever reason. Because the homes, and the people we have known, are in danger. I will go. Stay. I implore you. I will not need your help. You know this very well--"_

_"Think, man!" Davenport snapped at him, "You are new here, you do not know what you are doing, noble though thy cause may be. I am not cruel, or careless. But I tell you, you go into the thick of things and you will not even be able to tell apart friend from foe. They look alike, they dress in more or less the same way... who do you help, hm? Who do you think you can kill? Who do you let live?"_

_"But..." Legolas whispered, "We cannot just walk away..."_

_"Perhaps we can come closer," piped in the curious artist, "Just to... look. As an initial step. If we find we can unquestionably be of assistance to anybody, then we can move forward and assist. Otherwise, we can just... look. There is never any harm in looking."_

_They approached the settlement more cautiously, and slowly that next time. Legolas took point, and Davenport took the rear. They broke from the beaten path, and hid amidst the thick of the trees and the bushes as they strolled closer and closer toward the tribe. The sounds of chaos grew louder as the moved closer._

* * *

_Ordinary men would have found no qualms about watching the world unfold._

_To them, there was never any harm in _looking_. Better men, perhaps extraordinary men, on the other hand...they watched, they learned, and they stepped forward. It was in this way that they lost the extraordinary Mister Davenport._

Perhaps we should have just walked away_, Redknapp reflected darkly, as he walked alongside the sullen Greenleaf, back that same way they came, that rugged pathway Davenport had made, home to a vague victory with one man less._

_They were crouched in the bushes, watching, waiting. The battle was coming to a close. Sequoia's tribe did not fare well. The children were in hiding. Until the bolder young ones decided they could hide no more, not as their fathers and brothers fought, and bled, and lost._

_They burst to the scene, and then suddenly Davenport was no longer beside them. Redknapp remembered distinctly, that the golden stranger muttered a curse in a foreign language, identifiable only by the vehemence of its delivery. And then Greenleaf too, sprang from the bushes in defense of the young once._

_Redknapp has never seen the likes of him, as he fought. Greenleaf was inhumanly precise. There was a dancer's grace to the way he fought-- light, and quick, as if he was moving by a secret beat. No one had ever seen the likes of him. The tide of the battle turned, by his being there. Redknapp stood still and watched. He watched because he never fancied he was anything more than a watcher, and a painter of the world. And he stood still and watched, because he could not tear his eyes away._

_And then suddenly all was still. It was that odd, uncertain silence, as if people could not quite understand that the fight was over. But Greenleaf was quicker than the others, it seemed. While it was still dawning onto the people that they had somehow won, he was already on his knees clutching the old man's broken body, knowing he had still somehow lost. His head was pressed near Davenport's, as the old man clutched him tightly and spoke final words against his ear._

_"What did he tell you?" Redknapp asked Greenleaf, quietly._

_"I must go to England," Greenleaf replied, after a long, quiet moment. _

TO BE CONTINUED...


	6. Exposure, 2

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

5: Exposure, 2

" " "

Atlanta,

Georgia

" " "

Clarke told him she had no ride home, that she told her parents and friends to go on ahead of her. He was annoyed, and felt manipulated, but also felt uncomfortable leaving her in the cemetery where they just buried her brother. He offered her a ride, like he knew she knew he would.

"Ever feel like you're being watched?" she asked him, as they rolled out of the gates.

"Only when paranoid people start me up about it," Brad grumbled at her, glancing at his rear and side view mirrors, "Thank you, by the way, for sharing your unproductive paranoia."

She was not hurt by his harshness, a grace that bothered him more.

"I'm not cruel," he told her, sincerely, "It's just that... the things you are telling me... do not, and should not sit well, don't you think?"

"I understand that very well," she affirmed.

"What did your brother tell you, exactly?" he asked her, "What makes you think the accident was related to what he knew?"

"Nothing too technical," she said, "I wouldn't have understood a thing after all. I was a Philosophy major, for crying out loud. I'm barely surviving my current profession. But he said... something was off about the Ebola cure."

It took all of Brad's concentration, just to keep them on the road.

"It was applicable not merely to Ebola," she continued, "But to a good range of diseases. It had a genetic component that has never ever been seen before. No one knows where it's from. He said it was vaguely human, and why it can help humans without killing them. But no one knows where it's from, or how it can be replicated. He and his team were investigating all sorts of leads, getting in touch with all sorts of agencies and genetic research groups, asking if they ever came across it. More and more people were getting excited. And then their bosses told them to stop asking around, to keep it down. And then the next thing you know they're practically asked to kill the project, saying the lead would be reverted to another agency. But none of them could let it go, you know. How could anyone let it go, after all...

"Ivan and his teammates were closing that case in LA," she continued, "Just mopping up, really. The paperwork was taking longer than the time they took resolving that messy affair. And then suddenly, rifling through old samples and his notes, things kind of just... came together. There was just one other place where that powerful, mysterious component in the Ebola cure could be found. He saw it in Leland Greene's blood."

"Jesus..."

"I have some of his notes," she said, "At least I think that's what they are, I don't understand them, but you might. I also know where else he could be hiding other information. He said if anything happens to him, I should... I should keep tabs on them, make sure they go to the right people. He's also probably not the only one who kept a few things. None of them would let it go. I know I can't. I knew I could go to you, because you're in deeper shit than me. It's in your interest to help me out."

He growled at her miserably. "Fine. I'll take a look."

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

Halvor knew where everything was in the House.

His father had very specific ideas on the kind of literature that he wanted, and Elrohir fancied it did not at all seem illogical that in all of his and Elladan's years in this house, a few things in the library must have been shuffled and re-shuffled. And so their majordomo and a few cohorts were drafted into looking for books. Elrohir joined them for a time, until the doors started to chime and he knew he would be of much more use seeing who was visiting than bothering Halvor about it.

He looked at the video feed from the gates, and noted Marcelo Craxi's chauffeured car. He rolled back his eyes.

"Great," he muttered, as he pressed the button that opened the gates, and walked to the receiving hall to greet the Don.

"Elladan!" he called out, absently, as he skipped toward the landing, "Elladan!"

He pulled the ornate doors open, and was met by the burly Italian's deep and unabashed scowl.

"Mr Craxi," he greeted the man with a huge, false smile.

The Don was not in the mood to play. He grabbed Elrohir by the elbow, and pulled him toward his own house, shutting the doors roughly behind them.

Elrohir took no offense, and suffered himself to be dragged along, not feeling at all threatened or violated. "I am not Elladan, Mr. Craxi, there really is no need to be quite so rough--"

"You are Exhibit A," Craxi replied, almost absently. He peered around the room, looked like an animal on the prowl.

"He's coming, don't worry," Elrohir assured him.

Craxi kept a hand about Elrohir's elbow. In his other hand was a briefcase that he lowered to the floor, before using that freed hand to fish at his coat. He drew out a small, cheerily compact pistol. Elrohir's eyes widened.

"Now Mr. Craxi, is there really such a need for that?" he asked, nervously. He heard his brother's distinct footsteps approaching, warily, "I'm not really a fan of firearms," he added quickly, as a kind-of warning to his approaching brother.

"Nor I," Elladan said darkly, appearing before them. Elrohir felt Craxi's grip on him tighten, and his whole body tense in anticipation.

Craxi leveled the gun toward Elladan's face. "There are things we need to talk about."

"Are there?" Elladan snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning on a table, fake-casually. Elrohir had never seen his brother quite so mad. His face had lost all expression, all warmth. There was a menace, to his annoyed detachment. He was becoming the immortal elf-lord right before Elrohir's eyes, the one who would not suffer another insult or threat in his own house.

"What the hell are you people?" Craxi asked, his mouth dry, his voice hoarse. He jerked his head at Elrohir's elven ears, "What the hell are you?"

Elrohir stared at his brother's angry, stony face. His jaws were set, his hands tensed to fists at his sides.

_Meet the parents_, Elrohir sighed in resignation, as he made a deft grab for the gun in Marcelo's hands. The burly Italian's quaking grip was no match for the immortal warrior elf's adroit moves. The gun was in Elrohir's hands in a breath.

A string of expletives in Italian. It sounded very heartfelt and severe, almost as if the words were spat out at him.

"Yeah, yeah," Elrohir waved away the man's complaints, "There is no talking if there are guns, Don Vito, and you know it."

Craxi's eyes widened in annoyance. He looked red and verging on a heart attack.

"You two need to talk," Elrohir said, sternly, and more seriously, addressing the both of them in an almost scolding manner.

"I am in danger," Craxi pointed out, "I deserve a right to defend myself. I am old, and he is more skilled. I am in danger."

"In danger from him?" Elrohir jerked a thumb at his brother, "I guarantee you--"

"I don't know anything about him or you," Craxi retorted, "I am in no position to trust. And you are in no position to expect it, or make any guarantees to me. Undying devil spawns."

Elrohir's eyes narrowed in thought.

_What does he think he know..._ he wondered.

He opened the barrel of the gun. He took five bullets out of six, put them in his pockets, and then tossed the loaded gun back at the stunned Italian. His twin brother looked at him indignantly, surprised as well.

"You have a bullet," Elrohir told Craxi, "I am strongly imploring you not to make use of it. My brother will not harm you, if not by his decency, then by your danger to him. But you must not harm him either, for I can make one guarantee I know you will believe: If you nick him, I'll get you. You've spent your one bullet. But if you hurt him, even if you had a thousand, there is no stopping me."

"_Entiendo_," Craxi snapped, his eyes glinting.

* * *

Patpong District,

Bangkok, Thailand

* * *

Goran woke up to a ratty motel. Nothing too terrible, although he reflected that hanging out with Harding may have spoiled him a little bit; he hasn't had a place as shitty as this since he quit being a career criminal.

He was tied to a chair, groggy from sedatives. He remembered being dragged along openly in the streets, looking like an unremarkable, drunk tourist.

"Agent Goran," the man who had held him up in his car was the only other occupant of the room, "Awake at last."

Goran snorted at him, struggled at his bonds. But the man tied knots like an overzealous boy scout.

"There are things that I need you to explain," he said to Jimmy, "About a certain cure you helped spread around..."

Goran was struck by the implications of that little statement. But he faked a bold laugh. "I'm going to give you what you need, is that it?" he asked, skeptically, wrinkling his nose, "What else can I give you, world peace?"

"I don't know," the man replied, cockily, "I guess we'll find out."

He drew out a wrinkled, brown paper package from his pockets. There were some foreign markings on it and a host of stamps, indicating it came from Italy. He couldn't see for or from whom it was. The man next drew out a syringe from the bag.

"I hate needles," Goran muttered, as the syringe was stuck to his arm.

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

* * *

He awoke, feeling as if he were floating on an endless, gently rocking sea. There was a snugness to the sensation. He was warm, and safely encased. He was weightless, and aimless, and he longed to be nowhere else but that embrace, at bosom of the sea.

He hated the sea, because it called him constantly, because it absorbed him completely, because it drowned his senses, and robbed him of thought, and ambition, and desire. It promised pleasure, and safety...

_I'm drugged_, he realized, blinking himself to a firmer awareness, longing to be free from his complacency.

His sight cleared, and he found himself looking up at the haggard features of his gently smiling doctor-friend. He opened his mouth to speak, and found it more difficult than it was supposed to be. His entire body felt restrained, and strangely obstructed. As if half of it wasn't his. The sensation was profoundly distressing. He groaned, and tried to lift his hand to free himself from... whatever it was that bound him.

"Be still, all right?" Aragorn told him, soothingly, pressing his hands upon his friend's arms. "You're all right...""

For a long moment, he floated in that strange, calm stream. When he started speaking to his doctor-friend, he wasn't even sure it was the same day.

Legolas closed his eyes, struggled to gather his thoughts.

"What am I on...?_"_ he murmured.

"Morphine," Aragorn replied.

"Magic_,"_ Legolas corrected him softly, making his friend bark out a surprised laugh.

"You are terrible," Aragorn told him. His silver eyes were red-rimmed, cloudy. Weary. Uncertain, and at the same time, quite certainly lonely. Legolas could not remember when he had seen this familiar look, tried to think back to the rare times he saw Aragorn this way...

_Parth Galen._

His eyes widened, at the realization of where that look had come from, and precisely what had happened there.

_I could be wrong of course, but I have a reasonable suspicion that I am_...

"Estel_,"_ Legolas gulped, shifting anxiously, "You wouldn't... mind... telling me... quite..._"_ he closed his eyes, his thoughts were racing, his heart was beating in a mad panic, and he knew that the bleeping machines around him were catching everything.

"Turn that damn thing off," Legolas muttered, taking a deep, shaky breath. Or at least, trying quite valiantly. His heart was pounding. The machine bleeped and followed. It was like one of those annoying childhood friends one had, way back when, trying to imitate everything he was doing and saying just to annoy him...

'My friend please be calm,' Aragorn told him quietly, as they both shifted in Legolas' native Elvish.

'Is it... as bad as I think?' the elf asked, opening his eyes again, imploringly.

'It is...' Aragorn hesitated, 'As bad as anyone can dare to think.'

'And yet,' the elf replied, his breath hitching, 'I feel... nothing...'

"The pain will be severe without the drugs," Aragorn informed him, "I had to double and re-double, until we finally came upon the best mix. Your constitution can handle more strain than a human's, and similarly, required more medicine to achieve similar pain-killing effects."

"Legolas," the doctor said, clutching his arm in a tight, insistent fist. He looked at Aragorn's death-grip with wide eyes and a morbid fascination. He could not feel that touch at all...

'Look at me,' Aragorn commanded him in Elvish, 'It is not looking very good, I will admit. I could never lie to you. You opened your eyes, mind muddled and body drugged to the tips of your pointed ears, and you looked at me and still somehow knew. But I need you to fight, as long, and as hard as you can. I will not lose you here and now, like this. I will not.'

* * *

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

* * *

Like two warriors, they sat across from each other on a marble-topped chess table by a window, and _healthily_ began their heart-to-heart conversation by trying to stare each other down.

"You came here, and sought me," Elladan pointed out, finding approaching things this way was a waste of his time. He had a great deal of other matters to worry about, "So speak."

Marcelo's eyes narrowed, annoyed that while he won the staring game, his victory was dismissed and he was _ordered_ to speak.

"I know what you are," Marcelo seethed, "What will it take for you to step out of my daughter's life, and take your infernal children with you after she gives birth to them?"

"We have had this conversation before..."

"I know what you are!" Marcelo exclaimed, "Undying devil spawn."

Elladan stared at his would-be father-in-law. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Marcelo set his jaws, and opened the suitcase he brought with him. To Elladan's surprise, Marcelo drew out a book from Imladris' expansive library.

"I had the world's finest linguistic experts analyze this," Marcelo said, "They have never seen anything like it. Someone suggested i carbon date it, I thought why not. And no one has ever seen anything this old. Ever. And you have volume after volume after volume..."

"You were a guest, and you stole from my House," Elladan said flatly, reaching for the book, displeased.

"Ha!" Marcelo exclaimed apparently thrilled by the affront he had caused, "I would not have stayed here and participated in Giovanna and that flower-boy's wedding plans to give my daughter away, what did you think?"

Elladan glanced at the title of the book. As if life was playing games with him, it was one of the books his father was searching high and low for. Almost absently, he raised up a hand, calling for a servant that Marcelo was not even aware was nearby. Elladan knew of course, that Elrohir would not be leaving him alone and unarmed.

One of their manservants stepped forward, and accepted the book that Elladan told him to send down to the libraries to his father.

"What of it?" Elladan asked the old man, "I obviously collect antiques."

"I have more," Craxi said, "But I need you to be a man and tell me yourself."

"You're bluffing."

"It changes nothing about your lack of willingness to tell me yourself, exactly what you are," Craxi snapped, "Man to man, Peredhil. You are taking my daughter. My only child. Tell me what you are."

Elladan looked at him thoughtfully, for a long moment. Pursing his lips, he pushed his hair behind his ears, and removed the curved, synthetic tips to expose his pointed elven ears.

"Your daughter," Elladan murmured, as he put the earpieces on top of the table, "Was very sensible about the whole thing. I told her what I was, and and she asked for proof. We went to a doctor, who was fascinated by my genes. Because I am not, never have been and never can be, as you put it, much of a man at all."

* * *

Patpong District,

Bangkok, Thailand

* * *

The door burst open in a flash of movement that, to the ex-dwarf's reckoning, almost elf-like in its precise execution.

_Harding_, Goran realized in a mix of relief and displeasure.

"A rescue is always good," Goran found himself speaking quite loosely, "Almost always, I mean. I hate this prevailing kind of damsel-in-distress feeling. I signed on to be the James Bond, you remember."

Harding stood by the door, a gun raised to the man who was standing behind Gimli, who was now toying with a switch knife over his head, threateningly.

"Harding," the man greeted him in a clipped tone, "Never quite dead enough, are you? I told you to bug off."

"Let him go, Mason," Harding told him, simply.

"I recommend you think before you speak," Mason snapped at him, playing with the knife some more., threateningly.

"You really wouldn't do that," Harding told him, mildly.

"The same way I know you won't be firing that thing at me," Mason nodded toward Harding's gun, "Went through that little exercise already, didn't we? Just earlier tonight?"

"Let him go, Mason," Harding said, "You know how relentless I can be."

"And you know how relentless _I_ can be," Mason retorted, "Stalemate. How do we go about this one, I wonder--"

Goran sighed, and pushed his considerable frame against the floor, leaned on his seat, and fell against Mason heavily. The distraction was all that Harding needed. Goran, still tied to his seat, landed on the floor with a thud as Harding dove toward Mason in an assault. The former-elf straddled the other man, and hit him across the face with the barrel of his gun, disorienting him.

Wincing, Harding staggered to his feet, picked up Mason's knife, and looked at the openly-impressed and slightly-stunned Goran sourly.

"He used my shit on you," Harding breathed, as he winced again and bent to free the ex-dwarf from the ropes that bound him, using the knife the ex-dwarf had just been threatened with.

"Oh that came from you?" Goran asked, "You got your hands on the same thing Grima used on Legolas months ago? It's not so bad. I mean it is, but it's kind of almost just like you're having a good time with the boys. Except it's not a good. Time."

Harding stepped back, and looked Goran over. "You're all right?"

"I'm great," Goran replied, "He knows about the cure, Haldir. We have to kill him."

Harding stared at him in thought. The truth serum was making the frank ex-dwarf a little too unnaturally honest, bringing out the heretofore restrained career criminal.

"We can''t," Harding replied, "He's only doing his job. He's one of us."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	7. Sea Dog

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

**Hi gang!**

**A Very Important Note**. I need you to take a deep breath, and take a massive plunge with me. This is going to be very different (from my usual, that is) and I'm very nervous about losing readers. But I need you to trust me; give it a shot, and see how it tastes like, haha. I've always said I've been very adventurous about my depictions of our favorite elf; I've depicted him as a fugitive (in Exile), as terminally ill (in Last Stand), an L.A.. cop (the FEE series), even put him in an angry/homicidal mode for my "Love, War" slash experiment. It is not easy to figure out that the one missing experiment is the romance angle.

I hope I didn't lose you already, haha.

My works never have and I think never will be classified as legomances, but just... stories with a hint of it, an aspect of it. As I have pointed out before; he's an immortal, someone somewhere sometime must have touched his heart. In "Estel," I paired him up with a witch and killed her quickly, haha. In "Love, War," I paired him up with another dead girl. It seems like the only way I find writing legolas romance angles tastefully is to get rid of the women haha. So you can bet there will be a twist on this one.

Anyway, c&c's always welcome, just be nice, haha. Thanks to all for trusting, or trying, and reading on. Comment if you can, these are valued in a way I cannot begin to explain. Without further ado, Chapter 6. 'Til the next post!

" " "

6: Sea Dog

" " "

_London, England_

_1588_

" " "

_It took him three years to land upon those shores. What was three years, really, three years was nothing, it was a breath, it was a bare moment to an immortal. He just wished he remembered that it could mean a lifetime of changes for a man. It seemed also, that in the world of men, he had forgotten that such a short span of time could change him also. _

_Legolas Greenleaf rode the ship that sent relief forces to replace Davenport's guard out of America. They gave him a musty cot in officer's quarters, which was, he would later learn, actually a kind dispensation given his assumed status and the pay he gave for the berth. _

_At the start, the men knew him only by those romanticized uncertainties that the artist Redknapp was spreading around. But they liked him nonetheless, for there was something deep and significant about him that was both a sailor and a soldier, just like themselves. _

_The seas were rough, the ships were large and clumsy. Legolas lent them his thoughts and expertise, shared with them the knowledge of the seas that have been passed from his sea-faring kin. He gave them his hands and he worked, relentlessly, earning a reputation for precision and dedication._

_He proved his mettle on the deck time and again. Through violent storms and the plagues of pirates, he proved how much of a sailor and a soldier he was. And then the Spanish war came to a head in the seas and again, they found they could rely on his skills. _

_He was a relentless worker. They appreciated his generosity and drive. _

_What they did not know, was that he appreciated the distraction the work gave him more, a distraction from the cries of the gulls and the call of the sea. He always kept his mind and hands busy. He was always working, always on his feet, such that few could remember actually seeing him sleep for a respectable amount of time, although, the few times he had succumbed to bone-weary exhaustion was difficult to forget. _

_In those few times, he slept like the dead. Eyes open and staring at the low deck of the officer's quarters, looking both half-dead and at the same time, looking as if he was trying desperately to be alive. He breathed slowly, and deeply, and indulgently. Every breath was a sigh that was wistful and also despairing. It was hard to rouse him, and almost inexplicably... regretful, to do so. It was like wrenching a man from a floating dream._

_In these instances, everyone grew in certainty that he was ill, as Davenport and Redknapp once claimed, despite his strength and energy. The crew grew to care for the mysterious, past-less stranger even more._

_He always woke on his own time, somehow, and always vowing to sleep less in the future. He did not wish for its oblivion, because he soon realized how much it disarmed him, out here in the seas; absently, he would wake, feeling as if he were floating on endlessly. There was a snugness to the sensation. He was warm, and safely encased. He was weightless, and aimless, and he longed to be nowhere else but this embrace, at bosom of the sea. The sea called him constantly, it absorbed him completely, it drowned his senses, and robbed him of thought, and ambition, and desire. It promised pleasure, and safety. And complacency. And then he would force himself to a defiant, wider awareness. And again, he would work. And again, the gulls would cry their complaints about his defiance._

_Their ship captured many a prize, seizing Spanish ship after ship, as privateers for the Crown of England. The Queen called them her sea dogs. England did not have the funds to build the sort of armada that Spain had in its navy, and could only rely upon these private men of war to disrupt the enemy's commerce and trade routes by capturing ships and loot, delivering them back to English territory untouched for inventory and appraisal, and then reaping a healthy commission from the bounty._

_Many men of the age made their fortunes in this way, Greenleaf not the least amongst them. Their ship returned to England in a fanfare of victory, having both been vital to disrupting Spanish trade routes the last few years, and capping off those years of service by helping defend English soil from the invading Invincible Armada that Spain had sent to take the Crown._

_Greenleaf's wealth and fame grew, but as he grew richer, there were also some things he knew he had lost, irrecoverably. In his years of travel, he asked anyone he could possibly speak to about his home, and the countries his friends had once founded and ruled. He asked, and asked, and asked. It was all that he wanted, and no one could give it to him. He lost his home. He lost his past._

_This lost past was replaced by an ever-growing lie. People always liked a good story, there was nothing new about that. To them, he was that lonely, ailing warrior-royal who lost his memories. All sorts of conjecture grew about him. Some said he was a shipwrecked prince, except they had heard of no neighboring kingdom who was missing one. Some said he was a royal bastard, rightful heir to a glorious European throne, who survived an attempted assassination. Some said he was a pretender, an ambitious actor, _a liar_. He identified most with the latter. He lost his identity, he lost himself, and he replaced it with an opportunistic fraud._

_It did not take him long to stop asking the questions no one could answer. The results were profoundly disheartening each time. He did not correct their assumptions, nor did he encourage them. He only wanted to go to England, where he could find his last chance at significant information, and where he could, at last, after three years, redeem the word he gave to a dying old man._

_

* * *

_

_Davenport's widow's country home was large, austere and gray in sturdy, practical, graceless rock. It fit the gloom of the rainy afternoon. He stood outside the low iron fence bordering the small garden that surrounded the house, thinking._

_"Have you made up your mind yet?"_

_His eyes shot to the attic window, where a young woman with an impertinent expression and the laughing gray eyes of her father was looking down at him. Her hair was a shock of red, a deep shade that fell in waves framing her smiling face. He found her disarmingly beautiful because she looked so distinctively alive. The red of her hair, the humor of her eyes and the open, welcoming smile on her face killed the dismal gray of the rock and the rain._

_"Excuse me?" he asked, blinking, confused._

_"I've been watching you trying to decide whether or not you should come in," she replied gaily, "I've grown tired of waiting. Step inside, sir, or do not loiter upon my mother's property looking quite so grave. It is ruining my sunny disposition more than the rain!"_

_"Luisa!" he heard someone hiss at the chit, from behind her, "What are you screaming and yelling at over there?"_

_The face of the other woman peered down at him. She looked as she did in Davenport's beloved portraits. Beautifully, gracefully aged. She still wore her widow's blacks._

_To his surprise, she said to him, "I know your face, sir. Please, come inside!"_

_

* * *

_

_They served him tea in the breakfast room by the fireplace, assuming he was cold from the rain. He was soaked to the skin, and was given a towel and a change of clothes, borrowed from Davenport's stores. The towel he used, that he would not soil their furniture. The clothes he did not bother with._

_"I really won't be staying long..." he said, quietly, as Luisa served them. She had working hands, he noted, approving their slightly-worn, useful look. They had no servants. Davenport was not a wealthy man, but he kept a good home with a hardworking family. Luisa excused herself after serving them._

_Isobel, Davenport's widow, sat across from him, reverently touching two pieces of yellowing paper. She turned one over, and showed him one of Redknapp's works, the one he had made of the crew out at sea. This work was completed after Davenport's death, of course, but Redknapp still prominently featured the old sailor on the deck with everybody else. In his head, Legolas counted more than a handful of others who were in that portrait but never made it home._

_"That kind little man sent it to me," she told him, "There he is," she tapped lightly by her husband's face, "And there you are."_

_"I myself have never seen this," Legolas told her, as she offered the portrait for him to see. "Mr. Redknapp-- the artist-- your husband, and myself were stationed in an outpost together. We were together when... when Mr. Davenport passed away. Mr. Redknapp and I took separate ways back to England. He returned sooner at the request of the Queen and I turned to matters of war."_

_"I have heard of you," said Isobel, playing with the other sheet in her hands, "He spoke very highly of you, in his last letter. This they found amongst his belongings and returned them to me. It was unfinished, but it was as if he was speaking to me..." She shook her head in dismay and defiance of her resurfacing anguish._

_"I am here..." Legolas hesitated, "He was a great man, your husband. I am here to see if... perhaps... no. I am here to inform you that I wish to... "_

_She was looking mightily confused and wary. He was not liking how things were unfolding. Plainly, Davenport asked him to look after his family and he said yes. Now how does one go about asking them what they needed? Could he just give them some money and go on his way?_

_"How many children do you have, ma'am?" he asked instead._

_"I have Lucia my daughter," she replied, "and there is Stephen, my young son, who is out in town this day. What of it, sir?"_

_"I was... I was given the task of bequeathing you with..." Legolas decided to lie, for what was one more lie amidst so many? "With some significant fortune. In your husband's name, as his heirs."_

_Isobel's brows rose. "We have already received some compensation following his death."_

_"But you see," he said, "Privateers with loot from Spanish ships must bring their treasures to English soil for appraisal, before the spoils and commission are divided amongst the crew. This takes time."_

_"Three years?" she asked him, flatly, skeptically._

_"I suppose so," he shrugged, before smiling at her tentatively, "But shouldn't blessings simply be welcomed?"_

_"And at the same time," she said, "For everything there is always a price, wouldn't you say so?" she asked, glancing about her home, "And yet... I cannot say as we do not need it."_

_Their guest smiled, relieved, "Then it is yours for the taking."_

_

* * *

_

_He first thought that was the end of it. Word redeemed, he set about handling his own problems. He was welcomed to the Elizabethan court, sponsored by one of the knights beside whom he fought in the English victory over the Spanish armada._

_He was presented to the Virgin Queen, of whom he heard much. He found he was eager to meet her, the more he heard. A woman with a king's heart, a true monarch, wed to her country. He found he missed that kind of courtly dedication; he missed the honor, wisdom and integrity of a royal post, as epitomized by his own mother and father, and his friends who were also Kings and Queens of nations that thrived. _

_Elizabeth watched him closely, as he approached her throne. She had prying eyes, and a stern expression. He gave her his standard royal's bow, as he was introduced by his companion._

_Her brow quirked, as if she was both displeased and impressed._

_"Note carefully, Sir Richard," she said to the knight beside Legolas, "He does not know how to bow low enough." She raised a hand to silence the jittery knight, who was about to mutter at his friend to bow lower._

_"I wonder," she said, "If it is because he is so lowborn that he does not know how to conduct himself in court, or if it is because he is so highborn he fancies himself an equal to Us."_

_Legolas met her eyes squarely. He knew she did not need him to do or say anything for her to make up her mind about things. He found her clever, intriguing, and quite pretty even in her advanced years. _

_"And still he does not put it to himself to try and please me," she pointed out, "Whatever are we to do with you, _Mister_ Greenleaf?"_

_"Anything that suits you, ma'am," said he, "I am what I am, there is little to do about that. But you are the Queen, and there is much that you can do about a whole lot of things."_

_Her eyes glinted in sharp humor. "Insolent."_

_She turned, this time more sternly, to the knight. "He is welcomed by Us here. He is also welcome to Our archives, and to the company of Our map-makers, as you have requested on his behalf. Let him try and find himself. For I find that I myself am curious to see what he yields."_

_

* * *

_

_Legolas discovered, as Davenport had promised, that there were no answers to be had in England. He found law, and order, and knowledge and art and all things that made a civilized world. And he still somehow did not find his old life within it._

_The disappointment was crippling. At first, he felt only alone... now, one must be in a sad state indeed to find that loneliness is much more comforting than the things that came afterwards, but it was truly a terrible situation. The feeling of loneliness quickly transformed into hopelessness- no one to turn to, nothing to return to, not even a past to remember. He would be like this, immortal and alone for ever and ever... _

_And then his feelings once again transformed. Ordinary lives couldn't possibly be so cruel, he thought. So he decided he was being punished. And this made him very angry. And then, the rage turned into a kind of recklessness that was not unlike madness at all. He considered becoming hedonistic, careless, short-sighted. Nothing he did now would matter in the larger scheme of things. Even the best kingdoms crumbled and faded into nothing. Even _the best people_. Everyone and everything will whittle down to nothing. If they were anything at all, to begin with._

Maybe what everyone else is saying is right after all_, he began to think, _Maybe I did hit my head somewhere and none of the things I think I know are real and true...

_The self-doubt was the worst of all. It left him alone in the night, wondering if he was who he was, sitting alone in his room, speaking in his strange, lonely language. To himself. To his plants. To the stars and the moon, to anything that he imagined as having ears so deep in the night. To his relief none of them spoke back, otherwise by then he must have already truly lost my mind. But he just... spoke. Fearing one day he'd find he'd spoken it to no one for so long that he'd forget the words—forget who he was, where he's been, who he's known._

I'm real_, he thought desperately, _We all were, once...

_He clung to that hope._

_Legolas became a well-known figure at the English court. He was often there, speaking to authorities and experts, seeking out the finest government and palace libraries. It soon became apparent that he was in the Queen's favor, as she allowed him access to everything that he requested, and even inquired of him often. It was not long before he was welcomed to the private libraries and homes of the nobility-- people who wanted to please the Queen and some even out of an honest desire to help him. _

_There was little doubting that he had the relentless drive of a madman. The fragile grasp of hope was slipping ever slicker, as he drew closer to exhausting all possible means available to him._

_It was in this state that he once again crossed paths with the Davenport family._

_He was staying in the English country estate of a French duke with powerful ties all across Europe. Edmond was a middle-aged widower, a successful businessman, a significant politician with a glorious history in the military. He had the ears of kings and queens the world over, by virtue of his wise counsel, his wealth, and his influence. His looks, never having been enough to go by in the first place, have long since waned, as well as any earnest passions to replace his reputedly frigid and cruel, now-dead wife. She had ruined women for him, and he treated ladies in general with as much disdain as they abhorred any possibility of being wed to him. For though rich and powerful, he was also unfortunately irredeemably... disdainful of them._

_Still, there was a kindness to him yet, as upon hearing of Greenleaf's plight, Edmond offered his extensive libraries to the 'lost' man, and hosted him for weeks at his country seat._

_They sat across from each other at the breakfast room as they always did, except one morning, Greenleaf found Edmond uncharacteristically anxious._

_"You seem nervous," Greenleaf said, sipping on his tea, "Is it because the Queen is visiting?"_

_"Hm?" Edmond asked, slightly confused. It took him a moment to realize what was being asked. "Oh. Gracious. The Queen? No. We have been prepared for her arrival for awhile now. You know, Mister Greenleaf, I have good reason to believe she is cutting down on costs to her court by 'visiting' her subjects-- where she is offered gifts, and the food and water for her entire entourage is for free. She has been on quite the tour, lately. She must be funding a new effort. Very economical. Very wise. And I do not mind at all. I enjoy her company, much. That is to say, mostly. When she is not displeased."_

_"What worries you, then?" Greenleaf asked._

_Edmond pursed his lips, glanced left to right, also uncharacteristically uneasy. Legolas could have groaned in foreknowledge. _A woman._ It _had_ to be--_

_"Have you ever heard of one Luisa Davenport?"_

_

* * *

_

_Of course Legolas heard of her. _

_Her mother sent her to Germany with the money he gave them, to hone her talents with the legendary musicians of the day. It did not take her long to be known for her art, and had performed for many noble houses in Europe._

_They said she was her eccentric maestro's muse and mistress. Most people chose to believe it. Still, the insinuations were vague enough such that she was still received at court for performances. Edmond was not the first man, nor the last, to imagine she was his to take._

_Edmond had seen her perform in his many travels. And now, in his English country estate, he invited her to perform for his guest the Queen. _

_To Legolas, she looked as wily and lively as she did the first time he met her, except her beauty was magnified by the music that she made, and diminished by the games that she played with the poor fools who surrounded her. She charmed men indiscriminately, and then once she was sure she had them in the palm of her hand, she was a dismissive, flippant smiler. As if nothing mattered. It calculatingly inspired an obsessive fixation that burned both love and hate all at once. It was desire, in its most reckless form: indulgent, hopeful, and sinful. She was a crafty young girl. He saw through the act and disliked it in a very profound way._

_Legolas remembered that first time he saw her again since he visited their home that first time. The Queen had arrived, and Edmond's House was alive. Legolas made his courtesies to her, as was custom, and excused himself from dinner, absorbed as he was with his research. He did, however, come down to the ballroom for the post-dinner entertainments. He stepped inside the room full of people, and saw Luisa's radiant face right away, standing out from a sea of beautiful faces. She threw a knowing glance his way, and offered him a sly smile._

_They did not speak at all that night, as she was often surrounded by women friends, her own entourage, and the courtiers vying for her friendship. They did not speak the day that followed, or the one after that, for a variety of reasons- she surrounded by friends and beaus, he absorbed in his work._

_Like that time he first met her, she caught him at an odd sort of disarmed moment. Everyone had gone out on a hunt. He was working, and she simply appeared by the door of the duke's expansive library, watching him._

_He knew she was there, of course, he heard her coming. Still, he read through the rest of the compelling paragraph he was in before looking up at her._

_"Mister Greenleaf," she smiled at him, warmly._

_"Miss Davenport," he nodded at her, warily. "You did not go to the hunt with everyone else."_

_"One must make oneself just a little bit scarce," she replied easily, stepping toward him, "Give them a chance to talk about you, give them a chance to realize they prefer having you there."_

_"This is what your pricey education has bought for you?" Greenleaf asked her, wryly._

_"Perhaps," she conceded, "But I have heard it said that no one can match your own skills to that end."_

_His brow twitched. _Touche_, as they say._

_Legolas turned back to his work, and she glanced over at his books, "The Duke was very kind to welcome us both here."_

_"Yes," Legolas glanced up at her, distractedly, "Indeed..."_

_"I disturb you," she smiled, sheepishly, "I suppose I've just not had the chance to say hello. You were a good friend to my father. Anyone could have claimed those treasures he left us for his own. You are a good man. I came to say hello, and express my gratitude. And now that I have..."_

_He knew she wanted to stay, and wished he would stop her. _

_"Now that you have," he said, only half-jesting, in an absolutely flat tone, I suppose you should leave."_

_"You _are_ insolent!" she told him, indignantly, eyes wide, before softening in honesty, "But I do know you must be busy. I have heard about your situation..."_

_He nodded at her, grimly, before turning back to his reading. She walked around the room, picking up volumes here and there. He thought he was discovering something important, so he read on, intently. He barely realized she was talking to him, about how she never picked up her father's love of reading._

_Finding another disappointment, he let out a frustrated breath, and slammed the book closed. He laid a shaking hand over it._

_"You should get out of this stuffy room," she said, breaking his moment of despair. Her voice cut through his bleak, absorbed darkness. It was intrusive, and also welcome at the same time._

How odd_, he thought._

_He looked at her as if he just remembered she was there. She was unused to being forgotten, or set aside, and he saw some of that irritation in her eyes. What he did not expect, however, was a deep sympathy in her expression that put her late father's face in his mind. She wore a face that looked nothing like the flippant semi-debutante he's known her to be these last few days._

_"That is," she hesitated, "If you have time, I am quite willing to accompany you."_

_"I have some time," he said softly. _

_

* * *

_

_They walked around the vast estate together, and she told him about what she'd done since he last saw her, the places she had seen. She told him that her mother passed away not long after she left for Germany. Her brother Stephen was in charge of their home, and doing a fair job though he wanted, like most young men, to be out toward the rest of the world._

_"He is very intelligent," she said with a nod, "He will one day get the things he desires."_

_Legolas found to his annoyance that he actually had very little to say about what he'd been doing. They felt like all the same things-- courts and libraries and more courts and libraries and still the same non-answers._

_"I have heard some strange things said about you," Luisa said, pointing out the most outrageous thing, "You were raised by New World natives."_

_"Not true," he said with a small laugh._

_"You're a lost prince," she said._

_"We are all wishing for that to be true."_

_"A liar," she added, boldly._

_"In this court?" he scoffed, "Not another one!"_

_"A ghost."_

_"If you close your eyes I will vanish."_

_She laughed. And closed her eyes. _

_"I suppose..." she found him still there when she opened one eye, and then the other... "That is one thing we can say you are not."_

_The levity by which she was handling the situation was also making things seem even just slightly lighter for him. Up until that moment, he found no one brave enough to kid about his situation. He also felt, oddly enough, that she was as lost as he was. Two uncertain people they were, wearing two faces each._

_"My father's unfinished letter to my mother said you were not like other men," she said to him._

_His brow quirked, suspiciously. She mimicked the habit to mock him._

_"What did he say?" he asked._

_"He said you had funny ears, and that you slept with eyes open," she replied, wrinkling her pert little nose at him._

_"What else?" he asked._

_"He said that you prayed at night," she said, more wistfully, "That your speech is not in Latin, or any other language he'd ever heard. But he knew for certain it was a prayer, because he'd never heard a tone of need and asking quite as bad."_

_

* * *

_

_Luisa joined him the next day, when the rest of the household went to town. And the day after, when everyone else had lunch outdoors by the property's lake. He appreciated having her there, tearing him from his worries even for a short while. She tore him from his work, she tore him from his past, she brought him to the world, and he began to feel as if he was not so much of an outsider after all. In her laughing eyes, he was beginning to realize things weren't quite so bad._

_In the day, she was generous with her time and her thoughts to him. Outside Elizabeth's courts, she was simple, straightforward and honest. At night when everyone returned, she would resume her courtly games and he would resume not-wanting her. And then the day would come again, and she would step into his library, and then draw him out to the sun._

_In one of these walks, he found inclination and occasion to kiss her._

_When he grew older, he would realize that it was not love, not really, but just... need. Luisa was a distraction, Luisa was an event. Luisa was his line to the world: she made life here bearable, she knew he was some semblance of a liar and still accepted him. She tore him from his fears. To come to her with one of the most intimate expressions of connection was to connect to the world, the proverbial drowning man's log, a lonely man's last chance at intimacy... _

_But this would all come, much later._

_That afternoon, he hurt as if he loved her, though it was probably she who loved him more (which is something he would also belatedly realize much later). He hurt, because she did one of the worst things a woman can do to any man who took that gamble: He kissed her, and she laughed at him. _

_It hurt him in a way that he could not have imagined possible. She laughed this bubbling, little, flippant laugh. As if it was silly. As if it was nothing. And then he was lured into that same trap she had laid out for everyone else: obsessive love and hate. _

_The sound of Luisa's laughter stabbed through him, and the feeling of deep anger and humiliation was harsh enough for him to almost-not notice that there was for a fact no gaiety in her rainy gray eyes._

_"Why do you do the things that you do?" he asked her, after a long moment._

_She just shook her head at him, and talked about her beloved brother instead._

_

* * *

_

_Luisa did not join him in the days that followed. He was both unsurprised and profoundly annoyed. Especially after he discovered that Luisa Davenport was already making arrangements to wed their outclassed old host, after he had proposed to her._

_Legolas worked with renewed vigor, and missed on most of the meals and entertainments with the Queen and her court, until he was summoned one afternoon to Elizabeth's presence. _

_"Mister Greenleaf," she greeted him as he bowed his standard, un-submissive gesture. The court was watching their exchange very closely._

_"I find this afternoon's entertainments lacking in a sense of adventure, and danger," she said to him with a glint in her eye, "I have heard it said you are gifted with the sword, and bear strange knives with you in your person, a very unique set. I wish to see them."_

_His brows furrowed in confusion, before giving her a short nod. A servant approached him, and he murmured instructions on the retrieval of the pair of white, Elven knives from his room._

_"Where were your knives made, Mister Greenleaf?" Elizabeth asked, as the servant scurried and they waited._

_"My lands," he replied, "My people..."_

_"Which you still cannot find," she said._

_"Unfortunately, ma'am," he replied. The court was quiet, watching him and the Queen. Luisa was amongst them, standing beside Edmond with a hand resting on his elbow. Edmond looked both smug and suffused, by having her beside him. She looked uncertain and nervous, and averted her gaze when Greenleaf looked at her. _

_The servant returned with his two knives, and Legolas presented them to the queen, palms up, for her inspection. She touched them, and the light that reflected from their unique gleam touched her face and her eyes. She also _felt_ their life and their rich history. Her mouth parted slightly, in appreciation._

_"These are indeed rare and special," the Queen commented, "I have never before seen its like. I wish to see them used."_

_Elizabeth's eyes glinted dangerously, and he frowned, wondering what she had in mind. She stared at him, as she said, "Duke Edmond."_

_The Duke stepped away from Luisa and into the Queen's line of sight._

_"I wish to see Mister Greenleaf's swords in action," she told him, "I wonder if you would favor me with challenging him."_

_"As you please, ma'am," Edmond said, already removing his outer jackets._

_Legolas stared at the Queen for a long moment, wondering what she was thinking._

_"Duels are both illegal, dangerous, and reserved for the whims of nobility, ma'am," Greenleaf said to her warily, "I am nobody."_

_"Are you, now..." she murmured, "Both nobodies and somebodies in this land are subjects of mine, Mister Greenleaf. In the end, all you should think of is that when and what I ask, you shall accomplish."_

_Legolas glanced at the aging warrior duke, skeptically. From the corner of his eye, he could see Luisa staring at him with wide eyes._

_Wordlessly, he shrugged off his coats, handed them to a servant. The courtiers cleared a space at the center of the ballroom, and the two warriors paced around each other, gaging each other's abilities._

_Legolas noted with a keen eye that Edmond had a clean, determined warrior's stance. He was trained, and undoubtedly skilled, as his steps were light and measured, and perfectly balanced._

_Legolas tightened his grips on his two knives, tilted in his head in thought, and then almost casually made the first strike. Edmond deflected it, easily. He heard Luisa gasp from somewhere behind him. _

_Edmond made the second strike, a sweeping slash and a forward motion. Fast, sharp, clean movements that Legolas knew would never be fast, sharp or clean enough to down him, not even on a bad day._

_The power and the knowledge of that was intoxicating, and wildly absorbing. He retaliated, mercilessly. In a breath the duke was on the floor, huffing and irritated. Legolas turned his back on the duke, and studied his knives, absently, as the fuming duke regained his feet._

_The Queen was grinning tightly, throughout._

_Legolas heard, and felt with his warrior's instincts that Edmond was moving in to strike. _

_"Behind you!" he heard Luisa cry._

_His head shot up at her, surprised. Their eyes met, for a breathless moment. She looked stricken. And he was deeply and inexplicably angered by her concern. _

If you want me_, he thought, _Why are you having this poor fool instead

_He turned to face Edmond, and by his anger and skills, once again brought him to the floor, the nobleman's sword clattering away from him. Legolas kicked at the sword, to keep it away from the reach of his foe. The crowd around them gasped, and stumbled away from the sword that slid their way._

_Savagely, angrily, Legolas faced the Queen, and threw his knives aside as he stared her down, as if to ask, _Is this what you want? Are you entertained?

_Her eyes narrowed in irritation at his open, fiery defiance._

_He walked toward Edmond and stood over him, not breaking a sweat. Edmond looked up at him with a mixture of irritation and respect._

_"You should have had the decency to let your host win," Edmond made a valiant attempt at joking, after a long, tense moment. The courtiers around them laughed nervously._

_Blinking himself back to some semblance of calm, Greenleaf pursed his lips, and helped Edmond stand. _

_"An unquestionable victory, _Mister_ Greenleaf," the Queen said from behind him. He perforce faced her again. She still looked irritated by his defiance._

_"Leave us," Elizabeth commanded the people around her, "I wish to speak to him alone."_

_

* * *

_

_They had the room to themselves, this fiery woman and the defiant elf who stood in front of her with a restlessness and dissatisfaction that was consuming him. He waited for her to speak._

_"You disapprove," she said, with finality._

_"I saw no reason to humiliate a man who is a loyal ally to you," Greenleaf admitted, "And my generous host, to boot. You are right, ma'am. I disapprove. And I cannot comprehend. There are games afoot in these courts that I was never made for."_

_She rubbed her chin in thought. "Speaking not only of your duel, of course, but also of the games of a certain young woman who is of interest to us both."_

_"What about her?" he asked, not bothering to pretend that he did not know what she was talking about. The woman was sharp, and apparently knew everything that happened in her court._

_"Beauty can be such a dangerous, dangerous thing," she murmured thoughtfully. "You know that bright-eyed, reckless young girl will do more for me than any fool in my council at this day and time? I am in need of funds, Mister Greenleaf. England is ever vulnerable. And she will not fall on my watch. _

_"Poor Edmond has the world at his feet," she said, "and somehow, all he wants is for that little chit not to bounce his suit. He has his money and powerful allies, and I have a beautiful subject who will do as I have asked her to do. Heed my command: stay away from her. The things I have heard in the last few days have been confirmed by your exhibit, and by hers this day. She is not yours to have. She is not even Edmond's. She is, more than anyone else's, mine."_

_"Human life is much too short to be bargained so," Legolas retorted._

_"You understand sacrifice, I'd wager," she told him, "If you can believe a man can lay his life down for his country in a battle, then you must also believe that a woman can leave her heart outside the steps of the church when she weds. I have had to make such sacrifices, and I expect and require the same willingness of my subjects. If you look at it a certain way, I shouldn't even have to reason with you. You are here by my magnanimity, do not forget that."_

_"I have an aversion to being commanded," he told her, darkly._

_"I do not doubt it," she snapped, "And I have an aversion to being defied. How are we ever to get along? What we both have undoubtedly is reason. I do not want to cut off your pretty little head, Greenleaf, you color my court. But I would hate much more for you to interfere with me."_

_She stared at him, sighed. "Men are such fools for love. Do they not say that the hardest thing to govern is the heart? Go then, if you dare. Defy me, and try to win her, and break your own heart. For I guarantee that she will not have you, because she knows she is mine."_

_

* * *

_

_Was it really so bad? To become a duchess by title, and a goddess in the eyes of an adoring husband? To be showered with his riches? To never have to fear for the future of the children you would have? To be in the Queen's gratitude? To protect your country? To provide for your family? _

_Greenleaf considered these things, as he grew to stalwartly avoid her as much as she tried to avoid him. Both she and he were to leave the estate soon; it shouldn't have been too hard to do so, after that._

_Luisa's brother, young Stephen Davenport, arrived to fetch his sister and was of course welcomed to the Queen's court, no doubt by virtue of his older sister's growing prestige. He was also given an ambitious young man's means toward greatness and adventure: a coveted place in the service of the ambassador to the Germanic territories._

_Having been aware of the lost Mister Greenleaf's plight, and what he had once done for the Davenports, Stephen invited the stranger to join his entourage. Bright-eyed Stephen told him that there was much knowledge to be had across Europe if the answers eluded him in England._

_Answers and escape from court was enough to lure him away._

_And yet, as he stood on the deck of the ship that would bring him to Germany, he watched Luisa stand on the docks and give him a slight shrug and a clever smile, and he wondered how far he could ever really go away from the things that bound him here. _

TO BE CONTINUED...


	8. Break

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

**Hi gang!**

Here's one more chapter... A quick post, haha, even for me. I guess I'm feeling a bit stung. I have to be more open-minded to reviews that don't always shed positive light on the work, but it stings all the same, enough for me to try and compensate I guess. It's such a flaw, haha...

I guess the tough part about it all is to feel that a reader doesn't trust you enough to take a gamble with you on a singular, non-domineering aspect of a story. The position of legomance in FEE3 is a texturizer, a character nuance, nothing overpowering. To say 'he had once maybe loved someone' was like saying 'he likes Starbucks in the morning and shares it with his work friend' for me, if you get the analogy. It's just one more facade of a complex character. I had been afraid of losing readers to that warning, but the chapter for me, really had to be written; how hard is it to believe that a being who had lived for centuries even just slightly brushed that feeling of love?

Those who have read my other fics by now know that everything has a place in the story. A gun appears in scene 1, there will be a body in scene 3. I don't put in useles things. Chapter 6's legomance (if it can even be categorically called that), will be twisted in Chapter 8 in a way that I've been itching to say but I will not. I just wish a few people would stick around and find out haha :)

I have also been recently told that FEE doesn't seem to have anything to do with Lord of the Rings. I hope this is not anything that a massive load of other people feel. I like thinking I have an original voice and a creative take on the canon but I also would hate to isolate it-- our love for it is what brings us here, to write and to read. I would really hate to make you feel that you are reading about strangers. Kindly let me know if you share this feeling and other constructive ideas you might have.

I guess I really am a gambler after all; a modern fic with a romantic angle? The outrage, haha... But again, everything has a role. Every installment of FEE, as I said, has a role: FEE1 the transition with all the LOTR references, FEE2 the modern texturizer with the no-holds-barred attitude to establish they are actually _here _and _now _(I guess that's why some people find it isolating and disagreeable), and FEE3 the blend of the new and the old and what happens in collision. Even every chapter in each of these installments has a justifiable place. I guess it's just a qusetion of trust and patience.

Bottom line: Please be assured that I'm trying very hard not to waste your time, haha.

Anyway, thank you very much for all the c&c's, and don't get me wrong-- even the not-so-positive ones. If phrased well, these c's can really make a writer think and consequently, work to improve. Thanks all for reading and reviewing. 'Til the next post!

" " "

7: Break

" " "

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

" " "

"Do you believe me?" Elladan asked Marcelo Craxi, after telling him about how Anatalia discovered that he was an immortal elf, "_Can_ you believe me?"

Marcelo frowned at him for a long, quiet moment. The silence was cut by the sound of a ringing cellphone, some obscure disco track from the seventies.

"Sorry!" an invisible Elrohir called out at them, apparently having hid somewhere near and listening in on their conversation until his cellphone rang. "I'll get it! You two just go on..."

Elladan, who had long-known he was near, just rolled back his eyes as he heard his brother scurry away and say "Hello." He turned his attention back to Marcelo, who pursed his lips and nodded, as if coming to a decision. He rifled through the graver contents of his briefcase.

"Some articles were forwarded to my office," he said, "Usually, I am not bothered with these operational matters. But the biggest events, things that can impact the world and things that can impact on the perception of Craxi Multimedia within it, ethics issues...must cross my desk.

"This piece," he continued, playing with the sheaf of papers he had drawn out, "will seriously change how humanity sees itself, if it is to be believed in the first place. Which raises the question of whether or not to break open a story that can truly build, or destroy, a company's credibility."

He tossed the sheets Elladan's way, saying, "You believe in aliens, boy?"

Elladan arched an eyebrow at him, before glancing at the papers, "I want to. I do not want to believe we are alone. And I do think it is arrogance to think so."

"And if I told you they've been walking around you all this time?" Marcelo asked.

"I would call you insane," Elladan replied.

"An interesting paradox," Marcelo reflected, "And not all too rare. Desire and aversion all at once. The one thing that could bridge them would have to be...?"

"Fact," Elladan finished, "Unquestionable truth."

Marcelo looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, "People are still wondering where that Ebola cure came from, you know. It should be no surprise that a mystery cure to one of the most terrible diseases in the world would be dissected to the very core of its life. It was rumored in the medical community that it was applicable to a massive, unprecedented range of diseases. The CDC team handling the case was asking around, and then those they asked asked others, and then you have the beginnings of a tale that would eventually pique the interest of _everybody_.

"It caught the ear of one of my ambitious young up-and-coming journalists," Marcelo continued, "just as it captured the imagination of many others. You know... that magical gene they found in the cure? Our sources say it was found in just one other place."

Elladan's jaws tightened. Of course he could guess the answer by now. "Where might that be?"

"A blood sample taken from your friend Leland Greene."

"He was given the cure," Elladan pointed out quickly, "It could have been from there."

"The sample was taken before the administration of the cure," Marcelo replied, "And blood samples from others who were also given the cure contain it in a different way, like a vaccine. His was... widely-proliferated, and characteristic. It was _his. _And now I see... as the rest of the world will see, that it is is also in _you_. And," his voice tightened, "Therefore in any children my daughter will have.

"My people investigated Leland Greene," Marcelo continued, "Clean, seamless papers. Too clean. We decided to tap our less reputable contacts. We found a recently cashiered professional hacker who said he was once hired to forge Greene's credentials. He said Greene was a long-time client, until Greene shifted to someone else."

_Goran_, Elladan decided. Legolas shifted to Gimli's expertise when they were reunited, since he also handled Elrohir and Elladan's own forged identities.

"Greene is a loner fraud," Marcelo said, "With no past, and no history. But extraordinary talents for survival, and as tests have hinted... possibly even_ immortality_._"_

"Are you breaking the story?" Elladan asked.

"It's more a question of when," Marcelo said, "I am not the only one doing so. Other networks are breaking it wide open, and soon. Some major developments have occurred in the last few days to compound the urgency of the situation."

"Like what?" Elladan sighed, running a hand over his face, wearily, _What more...?!_

"The CDC team that handled Greene and the LA Ebola situation perished in a car wreck," Marcelo said, "And I was told that Leland Greene walked into an ambush some time last night. It was reported that they were not trying to kill him, but to capture him. He now lies in a bed in an LA hospital with injuries from avoiding them.

"They are coming for him, Peredhil," Marcelo said gravely.

"Who?" Elladan breathed.

"Us," Marcelo replied, "Them, _everybody _and _anybody_. Believers and non-believers alike. Plotters and innocents, the bystanders, the watchers, and too, the makers of history. You know why? Because to have him, is to have the facts, to have that unquestionable, elusive truth that binds everyone.

"There are no aliens, there is no God, Elvis lives..." Marcelo said, almost dreamily, "This is just one mystery in a long line of mysteries in the world. But this time, even for just this one mystery, the answer is _here_. _Now_. Would you not seek it? People have always lived and died and killed in their quest for knowledge. This involves me even more, because I'm a newsman. If there's an answer, I _will_ have it. My only problem with this one...is that when they come after him, they will very shortly know to come after you-- his reputedly long lost cousin with the uncannily similar aura.

"And then," Marcelo breathed, "When they are through with you, they will know to come after my daughter, and then my grandchildren too."

* * *

"Hello?" Elrohir greeted his caller. 

"Hey, elf," it was Brad Greer on the other end of the line, "Where the hell is everybody?"

"Here and there," Elrohir sighed, "Listen, Boromir, there's something I need to tell you--"

"Later," Brad snapped, "I need to tell you something really important. I can't raise anyone, what the hell is going on?"

"You know the funny thing about life--" Elrohir began, pointedly ignoring him.

"I'm in this reporter's house--" Brad began, oblivious in his own anxiety.

"--is that things can get really quiet for a really long time--" Elrohir continued, pretending to be obtuse.

"--Her brother was from the CDC--" Brad went on.

"--And then things all start to happen all at once--" Elrohir said.

"They know about Legolas," Brad finished.

Elrohir sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Boromir... about Legolas."

"She has all these documents," Brad said, "All this proof. They found the elven gene in the cure. Apparently, and I'm not surprised, it's almost like a mythical cure-all. And of course they found that same thing in Legolas when they tested him for Ebola. The people who handled the case are dead, everyone but me. And she wants to go to press with this." He lowered his voice, conspiratorially, "Should I steal them from her?"

Elrohir laughed, half-heartedly, "Gods, Boromir. How many times am I going to hear this revelation issue today? I think Craxi knows too. He's sure grilling poor pinioned son-in-law about it as we speak. Apparently, a ton of people know by now, what more harm could your lady friend possibly do... But listen, Brad. You think you can fly out to LA? _Ada_ and I will do so very soon. But you can get there fastest. Someone was after Legolas. He's hurt. He's hurt bad."

"Someone was after him?" Brad repeated.

"That's what father said Aragorn said," Elrohir shrugged, "If the secret's out... well we shouldn't be too surprised that people want to take a bite, right? That's precisely why we've been trying to keep it in wraps for years."

"Aragorn's with Legolas?" Brad asked.

"Of course," Elrohir replied, "You know those two."

"All right," Brad replied, "I'll catch the next flight out, see how I can help."

"We'll be there soon," Elrohir promised.

* * *

Patpong District, 

Bangkok, Thailand

* * *

"A very satisfying reversal of fortunes," Goran grinned at Mason, who was now tied up in the seat he had just been freed from. 

Mason glared at them hotly, especially since Harding was already preparing another syringe of the truth serum.

"Eomer really should rethink releasing that," Goran commented, "We're all beginning to look like a spy film parody. Stick it to this guy, and then that one... Haldir, maybe you should grab a shot yourself."

Harding just growled at him humorlessly, stalked toward a vainly-shifting Mason, and stuck the needle on his arm.

"You're so surly today," Goran told his partner, as they waited for the drug to take effect. Harding's jaws were tight-set, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably from leg to leg.

"I have a feeling we're running out of time," he grunted, watching Mason's clouding eyes.

"What the hell is going on?" Goran asked.

"The operation we were sent to was a setup," Harding told him in a clipped tone, "They knew Asia was not my strongest point, it was the only possible place they could think to have a chance... There was no mission to begin with, dwarf. What they wanted was us. I had a feeling nothing fit, that's why I called for a fucking retreat that you did not follow. Mason and I got in into a scuffle. That's when he got the serum from me. Apparently, YinYang has been singing about it. He got the serum, but I got my gun out first. I had him in my sights. I didn't shoot." He winced again, and shifted, "He did."

Goran's eyes widened, and raked over his friend's body, realizing the stiffness of his movement and the pained set of his face. "Where?"

"I'll live for now," Harding told him, almost wryly, "That's why it took me awhile to rescue you, princess."

"Shut up."

"Yeah, shut up, Harding," Mason muttered.

"Ah," Harding smiled, tightly, "Here we go. Let's not mince words, shall we? Why are we being attacked by our own people? Have you turned?"

"Me?!" Mason retorted, "You have some fucked up nerve, Harding. _I_ turned? _I _turned? Why the hell do you think we're after you? _You_ turned, not me!"

"What does turn mean, exactly...?" Goran murmured to his partner, eyes wide.

"Coat you dumbhead," Mason snapped at him.

"I'm not dumb," Goran retorted, "I'm underrated."

"Who's paying you off?" Mason asked.

"I ask the questions," Harding reminded him, "What makes people believe we turned coat? What do people think we did?"

"The Ebola," Mason replied.

"It never ends, does it?" sighed Goran.

"What about it?" asked Harding.

"Everyone wants to know where the cure came from," Mason replied, "It's like a big intelligence hole. We had to know, it was as simple as that. The implications of it were massive: a laboratory somewhere illegally toying with dangerous diseases exists somewhere, not to mention a brilliant mind that could be concocting something else as we speak, perhaps for the good, perhaps for the bad. And then the results of that analysis came out, and now everyone knows there is something about that cure... and... Detective Leland Greene, that is not like anything else in the world."

"Leland Greene?" Goran cut in.

Mason shrugged, "Whatever that cure had, people found it in him. A cure-all, or something. Someone somewhere even had the idiocy to say immortality but of course that has to be a lot of horse shit. But then people started killing, and they started dying, and people started coming after other people. All for a pile of horse shit that doesn't even sound possible. Shadows and mysterious players are at work, now. Interpol needs to keep things at bay. Interpol needs to know what's going on."

"Where did we come in?" Goran asked.

"Bouvier's e-mail was traced back to you," Mason replied, "Don't look so surprised, brilliant mastermind. We hired you, remember? You're one genius in a pool. Just like James Bond Harding over here. So where the hell did you get it from? Where the fuck did that cure come from?"

Harding's eyes glinted, almost-maniacally "Tell him, Goran."

"We just wanted to help," Goran shrugged, replying simply, and honestly, "The virsu didn't come from us, only the cure did. We got it from a bunch of elves."

Mason's eyes widened, surprised, knowing that Goran was under the influence of the truth serum. "He is actually telling the truth. Well fuck me. Elves, huh? Imagine that."

"Try and explain that to the bosses," Harding told Mason. "So, who else is with you on your little trip to grab us runaway agents, hm?"

Mason tightened his lips in defiance, before muttering four other names. "They sent the best after you, Harding. You must be really good, or really annoying."

"Or both," Goran piped in.

"That's fine then," Harding said, almost musically, "Just those four, huh? Well you can reliably find them knocked out cold in the next room. I said hello to them before I came to see you."

"Show-off," Goran muttered, "So we won't kill him?"

"We're leaving," Harding declared, "Killing him will only make our situation infinitely worse, _mellon-nin, _I guarantee it. Let's go."

* * *

Rome, Italy

* * *

Anatalia was still not touching her food. She was toying with them, absently, and smiling at her sister-in-law-to-be. 

"It's quite odd to look at things from your perspective," Arianne reflected, "When I fell in love with Estel and he was an _adan_, I had fears of losing him to time. And now you... you are to have Elladan for as long as you live. It must be reassuring. I think I hated Estel about his luck, for a time... to never have to think about losing, and being alone."

"I don't know," Ana grimaced, "You never know these days. Why do I feel like I'm the one who has to protect him?"

Arwen smiled at her in sympathy, before frowning at Ana's full plate, "That costs a fortune, sister. You cannot possibly have the heart to just toy with it and throw it away."

"I'm sorry," Ana said quickly, "I'm poor dining company lately. Everything seems good one moment and the most horrendous thing the next. I'm not trying to be difficult."

"I will be honest," Arwen told her, "You do not look all that well."

"Next to you?" Ana chuckled, "I am nothing."

"In truth," Arwen maintained her serious, concerned tone, "You look sickly, Ana."

"I cannot lie and tell you I am in the pink of health," Ana sighed, "But I cannot not move forward. Many women have gone through this and I do not believe I am the least of them. I'm sure everything is normal."

Arwen looked at her skeptically, before sighing in resignation. They conversed a little bit longer, until she noticed her companion looked to be... fading. There was no better word for it. The vibrant color of her face _drew away_, and then her eyes clouded and retreated. It was as if her soul simply... stepped away, from her body.

Ana instinctively clutched at the corners of the table as control over her body slipped away from her. Arwen gripped her hand tightly.

"Ana!" Arwen exclaimed, as the mother-to-be blinked herself back to Earth.

"My head hurts," the other murmured, in an un-self-conscious, bewildered tone.

Arwen looked at the bodyguards that swarmed around them. "We're getting her out of here."

* * *

The City of Los Angeles, California 

The United States of America

* * *

"Your handling of the situation in saving Leland Greene's life was truly commendable, Doctor Aarons." 

The opened the conference in that manner, but why did they look so terribly grave?

Adrian stood on one end of the board room, as all other seats were occupied by the highest ranking administrators and some faces he has never seen before. He felt anxious, not wanting to be in this stifling room with its intense attentions, wanting to work and be with his desperately ailing friend instead.

"You claimed a history of treating Leland Greene before?" one of the doctors asked him, with a blank and forbidding expression.

"I might have phrased it that way," Adrian replied, "But the context was that I knew him sufficiently well to know some things about his health and attitudes that most would not know. What is this?"

"You've known Leland Greene less than a year," said one of the strangers, "What made you think so?"

"We became friends," replied Adrian cautiously, asking again, "Understandable after the events that unfolded last year. What is this?"

"We are the ones asking the questions, Doctor," said his boss, gently but with finality.

"If my actions are under review I have a right to know," Aragorn snapped at him. The administrators who knew him looked at each other uneasily. It was one of the strangers who replied.

"Suffice to say," he said, his voice a snake-ish kind of confident drawl, "If you wish to continue being in a position to help your friend, Doctor Aarons, you had better start cooperating with us."

* * *

The waiting area of the intensive care wing was a glass-lined room overlooking the skies and the city, four flights down. This night, he stood facing glass, looking below. Glows and flashes came from the activities of the city, surrounding his frame with a kind of ethereal light, making him look spectacularly lonely. 

"I can't think," Montes said, sensing he was being watched. He waited for Adrian Aarons to step closer, beside him, before turning to face the doctor.

"I've been watching them," Montes said, quietly, "The people below. It kind of just started with one or two, and then they just kept coming."

Adrian looked below, and saw a fairly growing mass of a crowd. The media was there, of course, though there were much more of normal people. Some bore candles, others teddy bears, and others still, were empty-handed save for their prayers and wishes. He supposed, over the course of the night, the news has been released that local hero Leland Greene was fighting (again) for his life and (again) in the line of duty.

"I should get out of here," Montes reflected, "I need to get back to work. I need to know who was after us. Him. Whatever. Probably just him. Who'd be interested in me?" He grabbed a plastic bag from the folds of his jacket. In it were some of the effects found on Leland Greene when he was brought to the hospital.

He flicked at some darts. "Gotta know where these came from. Gotta get out of here. Gotta work. I'm just... I'm just scared I won't be let back in, you know. The crowds are growing. And security's going way up..."

"And yet you haven't gone in to see him at all," Adrian commented, "You should."

"We had a falling out," Montes replied, distractedly.

"He did no tell me that," Adrian commented neutrally.

"I guess I'm not the only one he kept secrets from," Montes sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, "I kind of got pissed at him because my wife died."

"Well that's very big of you."

Montes shot him a warning look, and Adrian wisely backed down.

"So is the undying bastard rallying?" Montes asked, changing the subject.

"You must choose your words wisely," Adrian told him, after a long moment of annoyance.

"That bad, huh?" Montes winced, "Well. Who'd have thought it."

They fell to an uneasy silence, watching the crowds.

"Is he..." Montes hesitated, "Is he gonna make it?"

"I don't know that," Adrian replied, "But he has a better chance than most."

"He's different," Montes snapped, "I know. I was one of the last ones to get the goddamn memo."

"He doesn't grow old," Adrian told Montes, watching the other man's face carefully, "Doesn't get sick... invulnerable almost, except, obviously, he can be injured. To put it plainly he is an immortal elf."

Montes let out a low, heartless laugh, "Is he? And you tell me this now, because?"

"Because you need to hear it," Adrian replied, "And because I need someone else here to know about it."

"Why is that?"

"The hospital board is getting it's arm twisted by government researchers, potential investors, shareholders, grant-givers, God knows who," Adrian answered, "They threatened to remove me from the case if I did not tell them what I knew about Legolas. That is his real name, by the way. They already knew much from their analyses, I was practically useless... But I told them what he was, and what that meant. I get to keep him as my patient, for now. I did not feel that keeping what little was left of the things he hid was worth the bother. The machines are doing his living for him, but now more than ever, he needs to be surrounded by people he knows and loves. And people who genuinely care about him, not just what he is. I cannot be wrenched from this case. But if I am, I need someone who can be here for him in my place."

"If you gave them what they wanted," Montes said, "Why are you worried they'd take you off the case?"

"Because they want what he has," Adrian winced, "You can see it in their hungry eyes. _You_ wanted what he has. Everyone will, that is just the way that it is. Do you understand now, the importance of his secrets?

"The thing is," said Adrian, "They cannot have him, as long as he is alive-- he is protected by his rights. And the more the public knows about him, the more people of ill-will will be kept from touching him in an active, aggressive way. Greene covered every legal loophole to prevent any invasive procedures on his body in an effort to keep his secret. But dead... well. Let's say it is much easier to argue a public health concern with a dead man and win an autopsy or other research-related activity. I'm scared they'd simply let him die, more than I'm scared of the people who tried to capture him in the first place.

"As I said," continued Adrian, "Everyone wants what he has. That's why I think your investigation of your attackers will lead you nowhere. Too many people with a motive and opportunity. Just... be here, with him. And with me. Because I'm starting to feel like I'm the only one fighting to keep him alive."

* * *

It was a Tuesday, and television history's most watched program, as well as a ratings-killing sports final was interrupted for some breaking news. The interruption was met by groans and catcalls. The public was not pleased. But channel after channel, the news was the same, and its importance was steadily growing in their minds. 

"Where did the Ebola cure come from seemed to be the question on everyone's minds these last few weeks," one of the anchormen stated, "Our informants have uncovered activities regarding the case in over a hundred international agencies all over the world..."

A fresh, jittery and heavily-accented field correspondent from Thailand adds: "Weeks before, a mystery cure appeared to combat an outbreak of Ebola in California. The cure, said to be a final act of repentance from the perpetrator of the terrorist act was discovered to actually be from an Interpol agent named Jimmy Goran, who has now gone into hiding as a suspected terrorist. A manhunt is underway for the renegade agent, and his partner, decorated veteran Horace Harding. Exasperated Interpol heads have hinted on posting rewards on their capture, but have so far not done so, instead reiterating that their agency had nothing whatsoever to do with the actions of the two agents relating to the cure or possibly, the initial terrorist act that necessitated it..."

Terrorists at large was enough to strike chords of panic, of course, except Interpol wasn't the only agency who had been busy investigating the Ebola case over the past few weeks.

In Atlanta, a seasoned, reporter with a creased, sympathetic brow reported that some relatives of CDC employees who recently perished in a heretofore unreported vehicular accident are crying foul play.

"The twist here, Carrie," he said to the anchorwoman he was speaking to, "Is that every single one of these men directly handled the Ebola case in Los Angeles."

He added that the team was heavily investigating some unique and extraordinary components of the cure, asking other agencies for inputs and expertise, until they were recently ordered to end the project or at the very least, to stop consulting with external agencies and shedding more attention on their discoveries than they had to.

"The CDC press release vehemently denies any involvement in the deaths, which they still regard as a highly tragic accident that impacts on the agency," he continued, "They are sympathetic to the families, and assure them full cooperation on any ensuing investigations."

Another Georgian correspondent was focusing on a more scientific aspect of the news. "What is it about the cure that is getting everyone interested to the point of suspected murder and conspiracy?" the stern woman said, "Our informants are hinting at a mysterious cure-all, resistant gene that is also suspected to share traits that prevent aging."

She was cautious, as she was told by her network superiors to be. 'Informants, 'Hints,' nothing definitive that could tarnish the news channel's reputation since they were, in so many words, actually talking about something that seemed fantastic and impossible.

"One of the recently deceased CDC agents left his wife instructions of propagating his discoveries if something should happen to him," she continued, "Another left his notes with his sister. Various news agencies and scientific communities have been receiving firsthand information from these relatives over the last few hours. We are all waiting on confirmations on the viability of these documents as we speak. In brief, though, it has been suggested that the mystery gene people are willing to die and kill for has been found to be in just one other person so far: Detective Leland Greene in California..."

In California, a fresh, ambitious brunette junior-reporter was assigned to cover developments on an accident involving local hero Leland Greene, back when the story was much simpler. She had n excellent spot on the hospital grounds because of her initial assignment, but was turned into the main correspondent on the story by virtue of her coveted location, as the tale mutated before her very eyes.

What had been a cop accident turned into a set-up/ambush. Someone was trying to get Greene, perhaps in relation to the murder case he and his partner were investigating. And then soon, the story unfolded further to reveal precisely why anyone would want to capture him-- his rare, magical genes.

"But we have so far received no confirmed anomalies in his genetic makeup, either from the hospital presently treating him, or from the CDC," she said, "What we do know, is that Lieutenant Greene is still in supportive care, and that the prognosis is not good. The hospital has also diverted all admissions and increased security..."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	9. Believer

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

**Hi gang!**

I wrote a super long intro to this chapter before my connection screwed me over. I guess it'll have to wait... Please review if you can, you all know every single one is treasured. I hope you enjoy. There's an element to this chapter that I really had a grand time creating. I always said I wanted to do a twist on the traditional legomance and this is what came out: something more bitter and also I think, fairly realistic. This chapter emphasizes not the passion or romance of a love story, but its irony, and occasional cruelty. In the mortal/elf romance epitomized by Arwen and Aragorn, you see the grief of the loss over the ages. In this twisted number, I wanted to show that aside from the pain of the eventual loss, there is also vanity and pride. This was what I wanted to share when I made that legomance warning; that there was a purpose to every element of the story. The purpose of the romance was to show the loneliness you will find below, a precursor of the same loneliness that will occupy our elven hero thoughout the course of FEE. More will be said of this in my usual afterword :)

Anyway, enough of that, haha. On with the chapter. Thanks for taking the time to read :) Btw, see Ilxwing's site. She just posted new art and it's as glorious as ever, for FEE2 :)

'Til the next post!

" " "

_8: Believer_

" " "

_Paris, France_

_1618_

" " "

_Louisa's heart pounded furiously at the very sight of him. And he had that effect; he stepped in a room, and he arrested it. He stepped in that room and gripped her heart immediately as he always did, and she felt young again. He walked in, and she thought for a moment that she was still twenty, instead of... well she did not want to count that high._

Greenleaf

_Except he did not find her eyes or her face, the way he always did when she was young and beautiful, back when hers was the first face he would see in a sea of faces. He passed her by completely blind and deaf, his eyes captured by some other sight._

_And then she remembered that more years had passed since they last saw each other than she had actually lived when they first met. She was not the same woman, how could she have hoped to look the same? _

So why does he?, _she wondered._

_"Mister Greenleaf?" a man even more old than herself approached him. She watched them discreetly from where she stood. She recognized the old man to be that fading artist Redknapp, who had visited their house often when she was much younger._

_"Yes?" came that same, low, melodious voice._

_"It is you!" Redknapp exclaimed, embarrassingly loudly. He slapped his cane against the ground in triumph, "Why Mister Greenleaf you must have made a deal with the devil himself."_

_The elegant brows raised. "I believe you have the advantage of me."_

_"It is I," exclaimed the other, "Redknapp! You know. We were in Virginia together. You and I, and old dead Davenport. Poor Mister Davenport..."_

_"Perhaps you speak of my father, sir," the other replied, politely, "He was in Virginia with one Davenport and an artist named Redknapp, whom I assume would be you."_

_"What are you yammering about," Redknapp retorted, irritated, "It is I! I did not think you would be so snobbish about it all..."_

_"I do not doubt you are who you are," the other said uneasily, "I am just not who you say I am. That foray into the Americas was three decades ago. My father, the Greenleaf you must have known, passed away already."_

_"Three decades?" Redknapp gasped, eyes darting to and fro, finding his haggard, aging reflection against a window. "Is that me? It has been that long? Then why do you look like that, old Greenleaf? Why do you look like that and I like this?"_

_"I am his son," the younger man replied, "It is good to meet you, Mister Redknapp."_

* * *

_Throughout the course of the night, Luisa discovered that the man she thought was Greenleaf was actually Greenleaf's son, who went by the same name as his father. She heard that the Legolas Greenleaf she had known died in his last voyage with her own late-brother. Stephen had a wife and two sons whom she met once or twice, long ago. Legolas Greenleaf, she heard, perished at sea, and secretly left behind a wife and son out somewhere. _

_The man/ghost/whatever he was who walked in the room was that same rumored son._

_And what a resemblance they had, she noted. The young man before here was Greenleaf incarnate, here to haunt her, a merciless memory._

_She was not the only one who was disturbed by his presence. Old Mr. Redknapp was making a nuisance of himself, to the profound discomfort and embarrassment of his children. He was saying over and over that he was sure, the man who just walked in was none other than that same Greenleaf from before, the exact same one!_

_"I'm an artist," he insisted, his voice rising, "I am very observant and I am telling you, he is one and the same--"_

_"But how could that be, father?" his eldest daughter challenged him, "How could that possibly be?"_

_"I don't know," came the irritable reply, "but look, for God's sakes. I'm an artist. I'm observant. I know!"_

_"He hasn't been an artist for years," the daughter explained to their hostess, who hovered over the heated exchange worriedly, "Not since he fell ill."_

_"That is unfortunate," their hostess murmured, "My own mother suffered through such delusions when she aged. It is but one of those things. We must simply care for the elderly, and remember them for what they once were, with love and respect..."_

_Luisa rolled her eyes at them. The condescension was making her nauseous. _

_"They are one and the same!" Redknapp insisted, "I'm not crazy. I swear it to God!"_

* * *

_Legolas hurriedly walked away from Redknapp, who was causing a ruckus in the main ballroom about him and how he was not his father's son, but the same man himself. People were treating Redknapp like a crazy old fool they had to suffer. He did not like the feeling of guilt that stabbed through him._

I know how it feels_, he thought, _To doubt the self, to wonder if you're insane, if the things you once thought to be unquestionably true were ever real.

I am very sorry, Mister Redknapp...

_He walked away from them, and moved into a room of exotic world exhibits. Their hostess' idea of entertainment was a feast of food, music, fireworks, art and curiosities. Her estate had a ballroom, and the anterooms around it were outfitted as sitting rooms, gambling rooms, and this little hall that he stood in, which was set up like a museum of oddities._

_He looked up at one exhibit in particular with much thought._

_The little man was an exotic, and stood at the remarkable height of just two foot spans, though he was obviously a grown man, by the lines on his face and the pensive calm in his weathered eyes. Legolas had never seen such a tiny creature before now, despite all his travels._

_Still, he did not quite appreciate the fact that the man was on... display, like this. In a bird cage, because it was supposed to create a certain kind of perspective, mounted on a column for all to gaze upon in fascination, not exactly excluding himself. _

_It was not the first show of oddities that he attended. He had long realized that the world did not always embrace difference-- it feared what it did not understand, looked with condescension at things it deemed lesser than itself, met with opportunity or unwelcome aggression things that were new, or feared..._

_The world liked its definitions, its rules, its certainties. Its expectations._

_For instance, in the years after he left England, it did not take him long to understand that people were expecting him to age and die, as everyone else in the world did. It being that he could not possibly accommodate them with the former, he decided, after awhile, to stage the latter._

_His travels with Stephen Davenport made them great friends. Legolas liked to think that he'd have found it in himself to protect and aid Stephen even if Stephen's father had never asked it. When Stephen Davenport died, it did not take long for Legolas Greenleaf to follow, 'lost' at sea. It was his first staged death-- an interesting concept for him, as even then, he foresaw many more would follow. He was alternately morose and morbidly excited, but in the days that preceded his "death," there was no doubting that he was acting strangely. _

_No matter how he felt about the matter, however, he made sure he was adequately prepared. He had transferred or hid his assets, for his use in the future. He had no plans of becoming a pauper after all. Years after his 'death,' his 'orphan son' emerged, and he was once again a part of the world._

_And so there he stood. Looking up at one of nature's oddities in some wealthy Parisian's hall, as if he wasn't one himself. _

_The little man's gaze drifted downward toward his. He averted his eyes, embarrassed by his curiosity, yes, but more by his hypocrisy. The little man looked at him as if he knew that they were, in a sense, the same._

_He walked around, casually, just watching life unfold. The corner of his eye, however, was caught by a vision he did not think he would ever see again..._

_Her effects have not diminished in the decades since he saw her last._

_Luisa Davenport walked into the ballroom and he saw nothing but her, it was as simple as that. Red hair and stormy, humorous eyes. The firelight made her skin glow, as if the light came from within, from her soul. She looked back at him in that just-as unchanging way of hers-- knowing, and warmly impartial._

Luisa_, he thought, his heart pounding. In one breath, he knew that what he was considering was _impossible_. It's been decades since he saw her last. Mortals could not look the same after thirty years. In the next breath, he let himself believe that he was not the only immortal walking the world._

_Arrested, he stepped toward her in a daze. And then stopped dead, altogether. For he suddenly felt as if his back was _burning

_He turned around, and found his eyes locked upon the gaze of an old woman... the very woman he thought he had been looking at, except much, much older. His brows furrowed, and he whipped his head toward the young woman he saw first. Yes, she was there, still smiling at him. Like a ghost. And then he looked back at the older woman, whose lips curved into a wide, disarming smile. As if she knew what he was thinking._

Mother and daughter_, he realized, swallowing because his mouth felt dry. He blinked, and turned away from the both of them._

* * *

_Along the course of the night, Legolas discovered that Luisa's arresting reincarnation was actually her daughter Jeanne. Their resemblance, he was told, was as remarkable as his resemblance to his own late father._

_He laughed, humorlessly, inside. How wonderfully, grotesquely ironic._

_He stepped outside of the overcrowded ballroom, and out to the balcony in search of fresh air. For now it was empty, as a popular song was being played by the orchestra and eager dancers stepped back into the room. _

_He swung his legs over the balcony to straddle it, sitting comfortably under the night sky, his feet dangling over the ground below. He took a deep breath, and exhaled in a sigh._

_His head shot up in attention as he heard the quiet shuffle of old Luisa herself, coming up behind him. She walked stiffly with age and he guessed, deteriorating health. _

_There was a less-valiant side of him that felt a sense of pride and vindication about this. He did not understand why. She, who once chose someone else over him, old and aging like this, while he maintained his youth... _

_She walked forward, and stopped beside him._

_"If I were any crazier," Luisa said, "I'd have said he was you."_

_"Not an uncommon observation," he croaked, before he cleared his throat, saying, more calmly, "You knew my father."_

_She smiled at him, wistfully. "Many, many years ago. The resemblance is too strong for my liking, as our old friend Mister Redknapp is proving quite clear. Did Greenleaf your father ever tell you about me?"_

_"No," he replied quickly, and he did not doubt, also quite cruelly._

_"Ah," she looked disappointed, as he knew she would be. As he meant for her to be._

_"I saw your daughter, Duchess," he told her, changing the subject, "She has your eyes."_

_A_nd your face, and your gaze, and your light

_"I have been told," she smiled, proudly, and perhaps with a tinge of envy too, "I was once very beautiful."_

_"You still are," he told her, surprising himself. Her smile tightened. _

_"Your father toured the world with my brother Stephen," Luisa told him, "Did old Greenleaf ever find those lands and people that he was looking for?"_

_"No," Legolas replied, "It did not take him long to realize that if he cannot find them, whatever made them worth seeking must be gone by now as well. There simply was no point. It is nothing but a patch of land, now. Just a patch of land..."_

_"How unfortunate," she said, faintly, "That is very sad indeed."_

_"Isn't it?" he said, airily._

_"You have the same face," she observed, "But there is no mistaking you are two different men after all."_

_His brows rose, intrigued. _

_"For all of his quiet intensity," she said to him, "There was a naivety to your father. He was so very pure. Everything was a clean, clear passion. To seek the past. To seek his joy. To accomplish his tasks and fulfill his promises."_

_He crossed his arms over his chest. "As opposed to...?"_

_"You are far more sure of yourself," she said, alluringly, never taking her eyes from his face, "A little more cold. Maybe even a little bit cruel."_

_He stared at her for a long moment. "You are the cruel one. You do not even know me, and yet you make these judgments..."_

_"I did not know him much," she said, "And yet I loved him still."_

_"Did you now...?" He was, of course, very skeptical. His eyes narrowed, and the arms he crossed over his chest tightened._

_She shrugged. "I did not have the courage to have him. And he came at a time when I was destined to do other things."_

_"Why tell me this?" he asked, quietly,_ why now? Why bother?

_"Because to tell you," she replied, "Feels as if I was telling him. Something I never had the courage to do. As I said-- you look too much alike. I could have sworn... but what I am thinking is not possible, is it? Past is past. That is that. Dangerously beautiful young things like you shouldn't have to worry about the delusions of an old hag like me. What I am thinking is impossible."_

My existence is deemed impossible, yes_, he thought, _I know very well...

_"And if it were possible?" he blurted, wondering, wondering about what-might-have-been, behaving like a proper fool, "If I were him, standing before you now?"_

_"Well it would have been grossly unfair," she replied, chuckling, "Good thing it cannot be true. I'd have hated it, for you to keep your youth and beauty and for I to have lost mine. It's not a matter of pride or perhaps... it is, just a little bit. But more because... because I would hate for the man I loved to wake up to a hag every morning, growing older by the day as he watched, and maintained his own beauty. The people we love deserve better. If he stayed at all, which I suspect he would have. The more he did not deserve someone like me, then. The people who love us will not be thinking of these things, of course, but the lesser ones _know_ so, and one simply cannot live that way. I would hate to give the man I loved something less than he deserved, every single waking day. He'd have made me wish I was dead," she laughed, "But you know, in general, for everybody, it would have been grossly unfair all around."_

Grossly unfair_, he agreed, _grossly unfair...

_"Your mother," she said, suddenly, "What sort of a woman was she? What sort of a woman could old Greenleaf have settled down with?"_

_"Are you jealous of the dead?" he asked, attempting to kid, because he did not feel like lying to her more, describing a 'mother' that his 'father' married when he was still the exact same man she once had known. In body, at least. He knew then, by her eyes and her changed perception of him, that he had indeed changed. In these scant few years, barely a breath to an immortal, and still he had changed._

_Her eyes lit up. "You look too much like him. You know, I have never ever wished to be anyone else but myself. But tonight... tonight I wish I was my daughter, and that I had your eyes on me."_

_It hurt to see her, old and with wounded, earnest eyes. She loved him once, perhaps, but that was that, as she said. Past was past, and when a mortal can look so different and aged, it was not so very hard to dismiss the past after all. _

_But it hurt to see her. Her lined face was his mirror, a reminder of who he was and what he's lost, and the things he could never have as long as he was in this world. He looked at her, and she spelled out his future. He would have nobody. Or he could only have people for a little while. Because his existence was impossible. And unfair. _

For you and me both, lady_, he thought. _

_That night, he made a decision. His duty was the protection of this family. That had been his word to a dying man, long ago, yes. But without a home to seek, this was all that he had. And with the changing of the world, this was all that he could be, constantly._

_In this capacity, they did not need to know him. _No one _needed to know him. It hurt to be known, it hurt, to receive expectations he could never meet. Like the ones lodged in Luisa Davenport's eyes. _

_And more and more, it hurt to know others, and to grow to care about them, and to know they were destined to be lost to him._

_That night he made that fateful decision. As a matter of fact, he made another. He also offered her his hand to dance._

_Her eyes sparkled with the sheen of reclaimed youth, which burned even brighter than that which she had when she was younger, because now that she had aged she understood its finiteness. She accepted his offer, and they took to the floor._

_They made an odd sight, the old widow-duchess dancing with the gallant young man. Some people thought they looked ridiculous. Legolas knew, because he heard them. Some felt sorry for poor Luisa and the love she lost. Some whispered that the young bastard was just out to get the widow's money._

_He never really cared, monumentally, at least, about how the world thought of him. It affected his life, yes, but he certainly cared more about how the world thought of those he cared about. Her eyes were closed, and there was a slight smile on her lips. She could not hear the whispers at all. Oblivious old woman. _

_They danced with the sweep of the waltz, trying to believe that they were defying time, defying age. And yet the eyes that watched them saw nothing but their differences. _

_It was not a life he could have wanted for anyone he would grow to love._

_When the waltz ended, she thanked him, and asked him to think of her once in awhile, only partly in jest._

_Legolas promised he would, but he of course he lied. He felt he had a right to try to forget the things that hurt him. Besides, once again, what was one more lie in several lifetimes full of them?_

* * *

_Days later, he heard that Mister Redknapp was desperately ailing and was asking for him at his bedside. His daughter, the wife of a wealthy officer, had come to his hotel looking deeply embarrassed at the imposition and already expecting him to say no. But he went, because that was the sort of being that he had always been-- honorable to the point of self-destruction._

_"I am not crazy," Redknapp was saying in a fevered delirium._

_Legolas knelt down beside his head._

_"They are one and the same," Redknapp moaned, "How could he have done it? I knew he was different. I knew even then, when I met him, that he was."_

_"Mister Redknapp," Legolas called him, mildly, and uncertainly._

_"You..." fevered eyes settled on the elf's face, "You..."_

_"You are very ill," Legolas told him softly, "You must rest. I am here, as you have sent your daughter to fetch me. I am here to convince you that you must rest, and... and get better."_

_Except he knew by the look of the old man that it was not a likelihood. Still, as he always felt, what was one more lie...?_

_"How did you do it?" Redknapp moaned, staring at his face despairingly, gripping his arms tightly, "I don't want to die. I saw old Davenport die. I saw many others. I don't want to... How do you not die...?"_

_"He is not the same man you knew, father--" his daughter said from behind Legolas. The elf put up a hand to shush her._

_"I'm not crazy!" Redknapp snapped at her._

_"Mister Redknapp," Legolas called to him, willing him to calm, "Please just rest..."_

_"I'm not crazy," Redknapp whispered, "I have drawn you. That means that I know you. I know you are one. I need you to tell me, how you did it."_

_"Did what?" Legolas whispered._

_"How to not-age," Redknapp said, "And how to not-die."_

_Legolas stared at the old man for a long moment._

_"I'm not crazy," Redknapp said again, "I already know you are one. All you have to do is tell me how..." his eyes watered, his breath started to hitch, "Please. I don't want to die."_

_Legolas gulped, his tormented eyes started to gather their own storm, as his gaze raked through the dying man's face. _

_"I wish I knew," Legolas said at last, "If only that I may help you."_

_"You are one," Redknapp said, a smile beginning to crack through his pained features, "I am not crazy. I knew it was so."_

_"It will be our secret, Mister Redknapp, won't it?" Legolas asked him._

_"I will take it with me to the grave," the old man promised, as his eyes drifted shut in a deep sleep he was not expected to ever rouse from._

_Legolas closed his eyes, as the last man he would ever tell his secret to began to fade. The last living man willing to see his truth was declared an old, crazy fool._

My existence is impossible.

My existence is unfair...

_"You were very kind to indulge a dying old man," Redknapp's daughter said from behind him, "Thank you, Mister Greenleaf. You are very kind to indulge his fantasies. Sometimes, lies are more comforting than truths, aren't they?"_

Except what I told him _was_ the truth_, Legolas thought, bitterly. _

_"Yes," he agreed, lying to her._

TO BE CONTINUED...


	10. Welcome to Earth

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

**Hi gang**,

Currently suffering from mild form of writer's block, but still trying to get stuff out there. THANK YOU for reading and reviewing and would appreciate anything you can toss my way. Just to answer a few questions though:

1. Why Legolas Left Valinor:

This is a clip from FEE1 Chapter 3:

"You've sent us along a merry chase, _mellon-nin_," Elladan told Legolas, "It really was terrible of you not to have called upon us. How long have you been back?"

Legolas frowned in thought. He left the mortal world the year Elessar died, sailing for the elven haven of Valinor with Gimli the dwarf. The years passed slowly there, and though for awhile he found his peace, the death of Gimli and the years that followed it were fraught with restless frustrations. He never was quite as complacent as the other elves, he was just _too fiery_. The sea called for him to return from where it was he came, much as it called to him to get to where he already was. The wanderlusting was persistent. His fruitless wanderings about the theoretical haven and his palpable loneliness bought for him a passage back to the lands that he loved. Although it was a courtesy often not granted and hardly ever requested, he was allowed back to Middle-Earth, back into the circles of the world, that he may at last see for himself precisely where he belonged, that he may cease to wonder, that he may find his peace (_or resignation_…).

This is a clip from FEE3 Chapter 3:

_"You are insane," said Davenport, gruffly, "Only fools leave paradise for here."_

_ "A good friend of mine died," Legolas said, quietly, "It ceased to be so."_

This was also tackled in FEE1 Epilogue:

"So," breathed Haldir, still feeling that serious shift in the air, "If… I mean when. When _we_," curious, he reflected, that he now counted himself one amongst the mortal category, "When we all die, you'll leave again, I suppose."

"Perhaps sooner," Legolas replied, startling his friend almost as much as the reply surprised himself.

"And why is that?" Haldir asked.

"I have a feeling…" the Mirkwood Prince hesitated, "I have a feeling I have to learn this… this crazy _release_ business. A more definitive goodbye, of sorts. One I've never made, before." The more he spoke of it the more it was beginning to make sense, "I have to leave while there are things that still bind me, Haldir. I have to cease this madness, of departing only when there is nothing left, as if I was fleeing, as if my hand was forced. Because I will always be left behind, I know that too well, and for so long I've seen myself as a mere pawn of the fates, as if this life was an injustice, and it lends no sense or credence to my freedom, my choices. I have to learn to make my own goodbyes. I have to know that I can depart. Because I ultimately must."

Basically, he left the circles of the Earth after Aragorn died, left Valinor after Gimli died... He was always fleeing things, in apparent defiance of his enduring nature. In FEE3, I am hoping to give him some form of a resolution for that :)

Anyway, wish me luck, and here's Chapter 9. 'Til the next post!

" " "

9: Welcome to Earth

" " "

Rome, Italy

" " "

He was the closest friend they had in Italy. Still garbed in his sharp suit, still thoughtfully and anxiously flipping a fountain pen in one hand and clutching a sheaf of papers and his cell phone in the other, and still trailed by his efficient flock of assistants, Emmett Rigare stepped into an enclosed section of the emergency room where Arianne Underhill was seated next to a sheepish-looking Ana Craxi on a high-set examination table.

He glanced at the women and gave them a nod of greeting, before settling his intense attention on the doctor in the room. "Prognosis?" he asked him, in that clipped, boss's tone that he forgot to leave behind in the conference room (or perhaps the same one he forgot to leave behind in the battlefields of Rohan).

"She needs rest," the doctor replied. "It is as simple as that. Her mother had problems birthing too, as her records have indicated, and this Ms. Craxi's first... and twins too, at her age--"

"Let's just stop talking about my age," Ana groaned.

Emmett's brows rose. "Twins?"

"They are sucking the life out of me," Ana grinned at him sickly, "Like their father and uncle did with their mother, I've been told."

"Elladan will be insanely pleased," Arwen smiled, before frowning, "That is, once I get hold of him. No one is answering my calls. I called him and Elrohir, and then thought I'd get in touch with you, and that it should have been my first thought. It being you are nearer, and far more responsible."

Emmett grimaced, "There are plays at work that need their attention. You haven't been watching the news."

"No time," Arwen said, worriedly, "What's going on?"

Emmett pointedly looked at his trailing assistants. They got the hint and walked out of the room, ushering the doctor out with them.

"Do her pregnancy troubles stem at all from the mixed-race children she carries?" Emmett asked Arwen.

"I had no such trouble," she replied, "When I had children long ago. And she or I are hardly the first."

"And as the doctor said," Ana added, glumly, "My mother had trouble also, and I am... not as young as I could be."

Emmett gave a short nod. "If the doctor says to rest, you must do as he says, for your sake, of course, but also to keep you and your children from more intense medical attention and scrutiny than they would usually get. You want to keep them as far away from the eyes of the world now, Ana. The secrets of the elves have been uncovered."

" " "

London,

England

" " "

_An existential question: Is a study hall a study hall if one cannot study within it?_

Finn sighed, closed his book as he looked at his friend with equal measures of indulgence and misery.

"I'm serious, Pip," he said quietly to his companion, "No more fooling around with Sam."

"I am trying to wake him," Pip said indignantly, "I'm trying to find him his true love!"

"I doubt that exclaiming 'Look, it's Rosie!' at random moments will stir anything, Pip," said Finn, "Honestly, you're just making him into a nervous wreck. Especially after all those disastrous dates with girls named anything remotely close to 'Rosie' that you set for him. Really, my friend. It's such a common name. You must exercise more judgment."

"I do exercise judgment," Pip argued.

"Rosamund Tang," Finn pointed out.

"That was a good bet," Pip said with a sure nod.

"Manufacturing heiress from China here on her father's money for an MBA," Finn said, "Eight years older, scarily sassy, bitter and lonely Rosamund Tang."

"Well someone should be doing something," Pip shrugged, his eyes lighting up again, "Say... you know I have a classmate in Lit class--"

"Mr Took!" the librarian appeared behind him, making him jump. Finn just looked sheepish and uncomfortable.

"You already know why," she snapped at him, putting her index finger to her mouth.

Pip grinned at her and shrugged, helplessly, before turning back to Finn. He opened his mouth to speak, except the loud ringing of his cellphone disrupted the peace of the hall, gaining him the unwanted attention of the librarian.

"Mr. Took!" she exclaimed, pointing sharply toward the door, "And bring your friend too!"

Pip smiled at her as he gathered his things and moved to step out of the study hall, an embarrassed Finn trailing after him with his head low.

"Yo," Pip answered his mobile, pinning it between his neck and shoulder.

"Pip," it was a very anxious Mark Brandy, "Are you watching the news?"

"What in all our time together makes you think the answer could even possibly, remotely be 'yes?'" Pip replied, rolling his eyes.

"Christ, Pip," muttered the other, "Just look for a telly and _watch_, all right?"

"No need to be so surly," Pip replied, looking around, "I'm looking, I'm looking. What channel?"

_"Any_," came the emphatic reply, "And then call me back. We have plans to make."

" " "

Bangkok, Thailand

" " "

Harding grunted, and suffered Goran's glare when he instinctively shifted away from the needle that the ex-dwarf, ex-criminal was using to sew his bullet-grazed wounds. He took a slug off the bottle of scotch in his hand, that they also used as an anesthetic. Closing his eyes in irritation, he let himself be treated, sitting on the edge of the bed.

They were on the cabin of a chirpy little boat, owned by one of Goran's former associates. The ex-dwarf reasoned that there was no way that they could use any of Harding's Interpol contacts and resources now. They had to rely on his own extensive, underground reach.

The situation was unnerving to the super-agent who had always been in control. He discovered to his relief that thus far, he had no cause to regret trusting that Jimmy Goran knew what he was doing.

"These were too close, _mellon-nin_," Gimli told him, quietly, as he bound the wounds in gauze. The graze ran long and deep on Harding's side, creating a bright red line to crown the bruises, and a few more wounds on his arms.

"Mason was good," Harding said, "He knew what he had to do."

"What do you think of all this crap?" Gimli asked.

"That cure was studied to half it's life, you can bet on that," Hardig replied, "And Legolas was examined to the ends of his ears. It shouldn't have been improbable that someone would look at them side by side. I was afraid of this."

"So there are a bunch of people trying to get to him?" Gimli asked, his brows furrowing.

"And everyone around him, soon," Harding answered, "You and I, you may have noted, by our connection to the cure. Brad Greer to follow, for certain. And then they'll look at Legolas' friends and scant relatives. They'll find Elladan and Elrohir, who are positioned as his cousins by some obscure thread-- but one look at the three of them and there is little doubting they share the makings of that blood and that body. And then they'll find Elladan's child. Perhaps even the Lords and Ladies of Imladris and my Golden Wood. No one is safe."

"But what do we do?" Gimli asked.

"I..." Harding hesitated. The words sounded foreign, coming from his usually-sure mouth. "I truly don't know."

" " "

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

" " "

"Good God," Elrohir muttered, staring at the television screen. In one of Imladris' wider rec rooms (his mother still insisted on calling it a parlor), he, Gandalf, his grandparents, his parents and some of their servants stood shock-still before the flat screen, watching the news.

Elrond rubbed a hand over his eyes, gazing intently as the camera panned over the gathering crowds outside the hospital where Legolas was being held. It was already a great burden to have him so ill and failing. The discovery of their elven secret in this world made the situation doubly volatile.

"Perhaps they can find it in themselves to accept us..." Celebrian murmured, sounding not-too-convinced.

"Not going to happen," breathed Ekrohir, "It's a different time, mother. Some will, do not doubt that. But it's not longer a world of magic and mystery. For every person who is willing to sing '_Give Peace a Chance' _is someone else who will gladly _dissect _us just to see what we're made of and how they can get a piece, I'm telling you that. Have you ever heard of the persecution of the X-Men? Have you ever heard of the terms _alien autopsy video_?"

The youngest Rivendell royal in the room started wringing his wrists, "No wonder Mr. Craxi thinks he knows what we are. _Everyone_ is going to know what we are. I gotta go fetch 'Dan--"

"I am here," came the quiet reply, as his twin stepped inside the room with his murderous-looking father-in-law-to-be trailed after him. He scowled at the room full of elves.

"This is what you have brought to my daughter," he retorted, "This is the world you plan to raise my grandchildren in. You should have given it more thought."

Elrond looked at Craxi darkly, before catching Elladan's lonely, prohibitive gaze. _Let him be_, he seemed to beg, _This too, you once felt for Arwen as her father_.

_We all only want to protect our children_, Elladan thought sorrowfully, looking at the crowds and the helicopters and the striking night lights outside Legolas' hospital room.

"He never does anything halfway, does he?" sighed Elrohir, "It's like Legolas' big coming-out party."

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

United States of America

" " "

They moved the elf to his own floor, the better to keep him from the curious eyes of everyone who was already inside the hospital. All access to the floor was restricted to a very short list made up of dangerous, ambitious strangers that outnumbered just two of Leland Greene's friends: his doctor and his partner.

Aragorn grew more nervous, as time passed and he found the list of authorized visitors grew shorter and shorter, and his name went further and further down the list. Legolas' condition also continued to deteriorate. There simply was nothing inside him that was strong enough to pull the weight of the others. Already, lying amongst the pillows, he looked duller and weirdly _smaller_.

_I need you to rally, my friend_, he thought, looking out Legolas' window, out into the crowds. _We are all cheering you on_...

_...Well maybe not that one_, he thought, as his eye fell on a man in a green alien costume and bearing a placard saying "Welcome to Planet Earth."

His mobile phone rang, and he answered it in a hurry, seeing an Imladris number.

"_Ada_, please, give me good news," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Then I have nothing to give, Estel," Elrond replied, after a moment.

"But..." Aragorn's voice broke, and he turned his back on his friend, whom he could not bear to look at. His free hand shook, as it gripped the ledge of the glass window. "But this cannot end here, not like this, not after everything. It could not possibly... end, like this..."

"Theoretically, I have no answer," Elrond said, "But if I see him, I might find other means... Is there any way...?"

"I can try," Aragorn said, skeptically, "But if you have been watching the news, you know not just anyone can get in here. I'm barely on the list and I'm his doctor."

"We are nevertheless flying in," Elrond said, "In the hopes of a more favorable outcome. Elrohir and myself, that is. Elladan I need to remain in Imladris, as we need one who knows his way around the books if I come upon fresh ideas once I have looked at him. _If_ I get to, that is."

"I have very significant doubts," Aragorn said, bitterly, "But we cannot not try..." his eyes lit up, "Perhaps I can call upon Gimli to forge you some official documentation."

"I'm surprised we have not heard from him," said Elrond, "Given the bond that he and young Legolas has."

"Dear Gods," breathed Aragorn, "He probably does not know. Otherwise he would have called, I am as certain of this as I could possibly be. I will ring him."

"I will see you in the next few days, Estel," Elrond told him, "I know you will do your best for Legolas in the meantime."

Aragorn hung up, and sighed. His closed his eyes, and opened them to find a few more alien-costumes in the growing crowd. He growled at them in frustration, before turning around to find his friend's mostly-lucid eyes staring at him.

Aragorn grimaced, wondering how much of the conversation he had heard. Like a man facing a shameful execution, as if his failure as a doctor in finding ways to help him was an embarrassment, he ducked his head, and moved to sit by the elf's bed.

"You heard what was said, I do not doubt it," he told his friend, quietly, and certainly.

"Estel means hope," Legolas teased him softly.

"I have a different name now," Aragorn joked, half-heartedly.

"People," Legolas whispered, "Outside. I can hear them."

Aragorn bit his lip in thought. _How do I phrase this_, he wondered, _short of saying, quite frankly, that the shit has hit the fan?_

"You were right to fear for the secrets of your blood," Aragorn told him, "Your secret was discovered."

Elegant, raised brows.

"Everyone knows what you are," Aragorn told him, "In the beginning, people stood outside because you were their fallen hero. Many others have joined them since the news broke that you're not-quite human, for a host of reasons. Self-proclaimed ex-alien abductees and crazy people who are welcoming you to the planet as if you were not the firstborn, eh? Humane associations that want to make sure your rights are protected. Conspiracy theorists who want to protect you from the government. Historians who want to talk to you about the unfolding of the world. Medical researchers who want to gut you. Various lobbyists for a hundred diseases who are beginning to look at you like you can save them all: from cancer, from AIDS, from the common cold, I don't know. It's crazy out there."

Legolas closed his eyes for a long moment, so long that Aragorn almost thought he had drifted asleep again.

"Everyone knows," Legolas said, staring at Aragorn sorrowfully.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn told him, "But that is indeed the case. The news broke when a team that discovered you shared the genetic components of the Ebola cure-all was murdered, and people have been crying 'Conspiracy!' since. Those men who attacked you were probably hoping to get their hands on your body, the same way everyone does now."

"I need..." Legolas licked at his dry lips, "News. Television..."

_I need to see for myself_, he thought, _what this all means. What my fears look like when they've become realities..._

"I'll get you one," Aragorn promised.

" " "

Aragon indulged him the things that he asked. The requests were both battled by the board and the men pulling their strings, but in the end, the hospital lawyer reasoned that both were air-tight: these were things that any patient had the right to ask for. The slithering sit-in administrator muttered a few things to himself about changing the patient's status, but mostly, as things stood, Legolas was given whatever he asked for within reason.

The television was snapped on the moment it was plugged in the socket. Legolas watched the news hungrily, as he sought information on what was happening around him. He also requested a reduction in the painkillers in a bid to be more alert. Hunched and face twisted slightly in pain, he watched the news as it spread out before him the hideous consequences of exposure that he had long-feared.

First, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was unsafe. Security around him was tightening, but how was he to know that he could trust the government, which had an undeniably vested interest in him?

Second, he knew that his life would never again be the same; he was the freak of the moment, the one presence that turned a respectable hospital into a circus... assuming of course, that he survived his injuries long enough to actually know what changes there would be in his life. Which he was told he was not very likely to do.

The hardest realization to live with was the peril he had given those who were close to him. He heard of the alleged CDC murders, a death that Brad Greer had barely escaped. He was also told that no one could seem to reach Gimli and Harding for some reason, which could have been job-related and had nothing at all to do with him, except he did not think life would be so kind. And they were also declared fugitive suspects in the Ebola case. He also wondered about how this would affect Elladan and Elrohir, who have kept to themselves all these centuries. He wondered how the exposure of his secret would affect the child Ana was carrying. The revelation of his secret was a threat to them all.

He watched the television relentlessly, pushing his failing body to the limit, watching intently.

Photos of him and Rafe were shown. Of him and Adrian Aarons. Of him and Elladan and Elrohir. Of him and anybody that they could find. The paparazzi photos from the year past were resurrected, along with photos of him with people he could not even remember-- an office party here and there, maybe another failed date...

He frowned, as he began to fall into a weary, troubled sleep. He was in danger. Worse, his friends too, were endangered just by knowing him.

" " "

En Route to The Maldives

" " "

The two renegade Interpol agents needed to go somewhere where their money went further, and where the international attention was not so pronounced. They headed for the Maldives, and from there, aimed to catch a flight to Austria, where their friends could likely shelter them until they could figure out a workable plan. There was just something about Imladris that was undeniably a home, a refuge.

Haldir mulled on these things as he contemplated their situation in the cabin he and Goran shared in the outwardly ratty fishing boat. The interior, however, was a ultra-sophisticated, covert little criminal operation center that had the crime-fighter in him cringing. Still... what else could he have expected from Goran's contacts from his previous life?

Gimli burst into the room, and Haldir stiffened in alertness. "What?" he asked, clipped, official, seemingly un-worried to un-knowing eyes.

Gimli had several newspapers with him, and even from a distance Haldir could see pictures of Leland Greene adorning the pages of the foreign dailies.

"Interpol knew," Gimli said, as he shoved the publications Haldir's way, "Because everyone knows. One of my associates translated, but I gotta hear this from you. Can you read it?"

Haldir frowned, looking the documents over. He could pick up about one out of every three words, and filled in the rest by context. He shook his head in dismay and sighed.

"God," he muttered, shoving the papers back Gimli's way.

"What?"

"If he told you that the entire CDC team in charge of the LA Ebola case is dead," Haldir replied grimly, "He's right. If he told you the only survivor is Brad Greer, he is also right. If he told you someone tried to capture Leland Greene in an ambush a few days ago, and that the detective's dying in a hospital in LA, he's right--"

"What the--"

"If he told you people tried to nab Leland Greene because of his genes and his body," Harding continued, "He's right. If he told you the whole world knows Legolas' secrets, he's right. That is what this says."

"What do you mean dying?" Gimli whispered, "What do you mean...?"

"What else could I mean?" Haldir snapped, "What the hell else could I mean?"

"We have to go there," Gimli resolved, "L.A."

"We might be expected there," Haldir pointed out, "You cannot help him. You cannot be with him. No."

"We have to go there," Gimli whispered, "I don't care."

"Think, Gimli," Haldir urged, looking at him imploringly, "Please."

The ex-dwarf just stared at him for a long moment.

"We wouldn't be as conspicuous if we were apart," Gimli said, flatly, and with finality.

" " "

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

" " "

Elladan finally found the time to pick up his mobile and was not surprised by the number of calls he had missed. 23... was that a new record for him? Probably not. Calls from his sister, his fiancée, Emmett, the Greers, the hobbits... they all probably heard about the story by now.

He dialed Anatalia's number first. The call was picked up at the half of the first ring, and it was not his fiancee who answered it.

"At last!" he heard Arwen exclaim, and heard Anatalia's protests in the background.

"I'm answering!" Arwen snapped at her sister-in-law-to-be, "If you answered, you'd have understated the situation."

"I would not have!" Ana retorted.

Elladan frowned, wondering if they were getting along.

"Sister," he said, calling for attention.

"Elladan," Arwen said, "I've been calling you. We heard about Legolas. We heard about everything. Do you have more news?"

"Nothing good," Elladan winced, "Arwen, the world knows about us, now. I was... do you think perhaps you can manage to come home, with Ana? I get this feeling I just want to keep people close."

"I suppose I can," Arwen hesitated, "But we might be awhile. I'm in the hospital with her, 'Dan. She almost collapsed earlier."

Elladan closed his eyes, and his grip tightened on his phone. _When it rains in fucking pours and it floods and it wrecks everything_...

"Put her on," he said in a clipped tone, finding his voice after a moment, "Please."

"It's not that bad," were the first things she said, making him nervous, as she explained the sensitivities of her condition and the doctor's orders, which boiled down to simple rest, if she wanted to keep her life and that of her children.

"Children?" he asked.

"Twins," she said, breathlessly. She liked saying those words, like they were magic, like they were more real... "Twins," she said again, just because she could.

"It must be karma," she teased him gently, making him smile.

His eyes watered. Her news was a ray of light, now that everything around him was dark and bleak.

"I will tell your father the news," Elladan said, "He is here."

"With you?" she asked, surprised.

"He confronted me with the outbreak of the news of Legolas and what it could mean for the rest of us," Elladan said, "He was not pleased."

_To say the least_.

" " "

In times of trouble, Imladris was a sanctuary.

During the wars of the Ring, it felt like a place of impenetrable magic. Time seemed to stretch here, offering lasting comfort and peace. After the war, the doors remained open to souls that needed rest and healing.

In the succeeding darker, undocumented life of the Earth, when the days grew dark and the face of the land changed, Imladris shut its doors to the world and its lords fell into an odd space of time, cocooned, protected and safe, as the life of the world unfolded around them. And then the land opened and awakened again after the world settled, like a flower blooming with the rising of the sun.

There was just a magical safety to its unseen walls and borders. Even in the times of modern wars and conflicts that raged across the land, it emitted a sense of enchanted, gentle isolation that made those who would have wished to covet it smile, and just forget, and leave the land alone to its masters.

The gates, however, were open to all who were ill and injured of mind and body in the world wars. Its remaining elven lords were healer at heart still, like their father had been. When the modern world lost most of its conflicts, the quirkier Imladris royal jokingly suggested they put up a bed and breakfast. The idea was quickly dismissed.

Still, in times of trouble, it called like a beacon. In the hours that followed the outbreak of the news, the doors chimed, and one by one, good friends of the elves made their way inside; Fred Greer and his wife Eunice, four ex-hobbits, Arwen, Anatalia Craxi and Emett Rigare, and an injured, surly, and very alone ex-Interpol agent.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	11. Black Sheep

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

**Hi gang,**

Thanks so much to all who read and especially all who took the time to review and support me and my FEE efforts to this point. Everything is appreciated, and I really hope we can continue to support each other. This is a really very hard fic to write; the varied settings are driving me crazy, haha, and I already know the end so it totally depresses me haha :)

But, anyway, here's another chapter. Btw, please be warned that I find this chapter more expicit than most; we have foul language, violence, and considerable weighty historical and cultural references. Please note that none of the words have any intention of hurting or insinuating any offense toward races and ethnicities.

Please keep the c&c's coming if you can, and 'til the next post!

" " "

_10: Black Sheep_

" " "

_A Stalag_

_German Territories, 1944_

" " "

_In his years of service to the Davenport family, he had come to certain expectations. Never in the time he spent protecting them did he feel his time was wasted. All of Davenport's family had a nobility about them, as if honor and greatness were hereditary._

_They were soldiers, politicians, activists, and normal, everyday good people. He served in their entourages, staged his death in all manners he could conceive after he felt he was no longer needed, watched over their lives in quiet, and then emerged years later in some other Davenport descendant's life. It became harder and harder to do after awhile, once the world started requiring firmer proofs of identity. The structure of soldierly duties in the World Wars, in particular, made it practically impossible for him to be assigned with a Davenport in any unit._

_He decided, however, that as long as they served in the same war, he was aiding them still. Over the course of the wars, he would hear snatches of news about them: heroism and hero's deaths. Three of four direct descendants, in particular, had perished by the height of the Second World War, one of them, the one he had most liked, killed in the London air raids. His hands had bled, he remembered, scouring the ruins of a smoldering building in search of him._

_In the end, he was left with just one young Davenport to look after. The most disappointing one. The sole survivor, because he had been a deserter. His brothers went to war, and he scurried away somewhere unknown. Legolas did not bother seeking him out. Even as the brothers were dead, he did not even feel much like looking for him and watching over this coward's back._

_And so, it was to his gravest surprise that, one deceptively sunny day in a German POW camp, he found himself face to face with none else but that delinquent, deserter, Daniel Davenport._

" " "

_Daniel's head shot up, the moment his tormentors ceased their relentless beating. The clipped sound of officer's boots clacked menacingly against the hard ground, and even the soldiers who were brutalizing him straightened their coats and stiffened noticeably at the arrival of the _Hauptmann

Hauptmann_ Lucas Grunwald he was called, Daniel had seen him around the camp. He was not known for cruelty, but he was known for being very exacting. Disciplined, stern and severe. He was a young officer on the rise, heavily decorated, and known and feared for his skills and intelligence. He epitomized that Aryan dream, Daniel thought, looking up at the set, chiseled face, frigid blue eyes and hint of cropped blond hair beneath his stiff, starched cap. Everything about him was crisp, and clean, and angular. Daniel smiled at him sickly, tasting the blood on his lips and teeth, hoping he looked like a spectacular mess and hence, the absolute opposite._

_"What did this man do?" the _Hauptmann_--Captain was the German rank's Allied counterpart-- asked. His tone was low, melodious, even. There was also a degree of menace to it, one that dared people to just try and lie to him. His English was accented in that German way, distinct, but also very highly educated._

_"He stole provisions, sir," came the reply, "In an effort to bring them to the ones being punished."_

_The Captain's eyes narrowed, and looked down at the bloody face of the man, who was on his knees, on the ground._

_"Name?" he asked._

_"Does it matter?" Daniel asked back, lightly, yet also very defiantly._

_"You are right," Grunwald shrugged, walking around Daniel, "It doesn't, not to me. But any shred of mercy and humanity people think to give to you, especially in a place like this, you must learn to take. I asked you your name, I asked who you are."_

_"Danny Davenport," came the reply, "I'm here to send Krauts to hell."_

_"It does not seem as if you got very far along this ambition, since you are here," Grunwald pointed out. The soldiers around him snickered, and ceased when he tossed them a warning glance. His threats and reprimands were handed out so casually..._

_Daniel shrugged. _

_Grunwald's eyes narrowed again, glancing at the name on Daniel's tunic. 'Davenport,' it said. He leaned toward the younger man's ear, murmuring, "I have heard it said, Mister Davenport, that your dead brothers did not fair so well either."_

_Daniel could not help it. His mind whited out, and he swung, blindly, recklessly, perhaps suicidally, toward the Captain's head. His fist was caught cleanly, and annoyingly easily._

_He breathed hard, and his eyes watered. This was one punishment he would not be able to take, the slander, the painful reminders, of the deaths of his noble brothers... his alone-ness, the fact that he was left, and much less of a man than they had been._

_He lowered his gaze from Grunwald's, feeling quite undeniably defeated, and pulled his hand from the loosened grip of the officer. Grunwald rose to his feet, and murmured to the lower ranking soldiers who were beating up the prisoner earlier, "You see, there are many ways to hurt a man."_

" " "

_It hurt him, more than he thought it would, to have to say those things. Legolas, or Lucas Grunwald as he went by these days, mulled on these matters as he sipped his lager with fellow German officers in their private dining hall. _

_It is all an act, just another lie, just another life and yet... the look on the young man's eyes had been real, and tangible. It made him feel sick, or at least, what he imagined sick could feel like. What he heard it was like. Whatever..._

_He frowned, as he heard a hammering on the floor beneath him._

_'What was that?' one of his companions asked. _

Amateurs_, he thought, glumly, _Trying to build a tunnel below to escape us.

_'I hit my leg on the table,' Legolas lied, in German. His brother-officer shrugged, and started out dealing cards._

_Legolas played absently, winning a few hands, losing more. He was distracted by the sounds beneath his feet, and trying to disguise them with grunts, or cleared throats, and more leg-hitting-the-table lies._

_His sharp, elven ears could make out the men below talking, and planning. Could hear their makeshift tools hitting ground and rock. They were not very discreet._

_Over beer and cards, the night wore on, and so did the digging below them. Legolas retired to bed only after the diggers retired themselves, unaware of their silent protector. He heard them talk about how much pride they had in doing a good day's work tonight. He heard them say they can really make it happen soon, whatever it was that they were planning._

_Legolas hoped they were not planning escape. That would just be suicidal. The winter was at its worst, not to mention they were entrenched deep in German territory. As he walked to his quarters, he contemplated how to catch them and get rid of their tools and dissuade them of their plot, without exposing them and consequently getting them punished or possibly even killed._

" " "

_"I think we're right beneath it," Daniel grinned, to the companions flanking him._

_"Are you sure?" his companion, Alan, a Frenchman, asked._

_"He counted the fricking steps, Frenchie," a captured American paratrooper named Ryan pointed out, "Work of genius by the way, Danny-boy. Trying to get food for your poor little punished buddies? Would've been better if you didn't get caught and had to lie at all. Would've saved your pretty face from the beating."_

_Alan laughed, "Well he was never so pretty to begin with."_

_"The French are such pastries," Daniel muttered, as he braced himself to dig upward and break through to the storage shed. "Ready?"_

_"You really saw the guard step out?" Alan asked Ryan._

_"I told you he was into shit-breaks," Ryan said in disgust, "Like a goddamn clock. The Krauts really are robots. Go for it, kiddo. What the hell."_

_Daniel pushed, and a small hole in the ground caved in over him in rock and dust. He coughed, and his vision cleared..._

_Only to find that he was being calmly watched by the calculatingly cold blue eyes of the worst punisher of them all, _Hauptmann _Grunwald._

_"Fucking--"_

_He was grabbed by the collar and hauled up to the ground level from his little rat hole. He heard the Frenchman and the American gasp and express similarly-spirited expletives from behind him._

_Grunwald pressed a Luger toward Daniel's face. "Tell them to stay in the hole, and to get the hell away from here."_

_Daniel was confused. He was going to do that, to minimize the exposure, to make sure no one else was punished but him. But what was this crazy German captain talking about? What did he have up his sleeve?_

_Daniel decided to shut up. _

_"Get back to your cells," Grunwald told the two men who peered up at him, looking similarly puzzled, "Now."_

_"Danny?" Ryan inquired, in a low voice._

_"Do as he says," Davenport muttered, "Go. We've been caught anyway. Who knows what waits for you there? But I know for sure what's waiting for me here. Take the chance. Just go, and do as he says."_

_Hesitantly, the two men did as they were told. Grunwald lowered the handgun, and holstered it, looking at Davenport in a disconcerting way, as if he wasn't sure what to do with him. It was not the first time Daniel had been looked at in that way._

_"I cannot believe that all that bother would have been just for food," Grunwald said, thoughtfully, "You were found here once before, and you said you were taking extra provisions for punished friends. I checked the inventory. You were taking something else. And you were doing something else. Loosening the ground from here so you can dig beneath it, for one, I would wager. And taking nothing particularly edible. You were taking tools, and what I believe to be the elements of an improvised bomb."_

_"You can think what you like," Daniel retorted._

_"I think your heart is in the right place but you are a fool," Grunwald said, sighing as he looked down at the hole on the ground, "How were you planning on covering that up?"_

_"What the hell do you care?"_

_Grunwald stared at him for a long moment. When he spoke again, his German accent had vanished, to be replaced by one that reminded Daniel of home. "My real name is Lane Garrett, I'm SIS."_

That's MI6 to us mere mortals_, Daniel thought, gulping._

_"Yeah, right..." Daniel snorted, nervously, because he was scared the statement might be true. And he was scared he might be put in a position to believe or dismiss it._

_"We once thought that this camp, like most traditional _Stalag_ units across German territories, is simply a prisoner of war camp for enlisted, lower-ranking allied forces captured during the war," Grunwald/Garrett/Whomever told him._

_"But the similarities end when one begins to consider that the series of buildings right next to this compound," Grunwald continued, "is an arms factory directly servicing the needs of the German army. Our spies have indicated thus, and I too, have seen with my own eyes, as I am certain you have. While it should obviously be a target for the air force, it's proximity to the POW camp has so far protected it from Allied bombs."_

I know, _Daniel thought, _What the hell do you think I was thinking of blowing up...

_"I can see now that you understand the strike must come from within," Grunwald said, "But that is my job, not yours."_

_"Stop playing games with me, Kraut," Daniel muttered, "Just tell on me, or kill me, or whatever. Just... stop...lying..."_

_"I worked with your brother--"_

_"Fuck you--"_

_"Nathan," Grunwald continued, "We were in training together--"_

_"Just stop--"_

_"Special operations," Grunwald went on, stubbornly, "I know your mother's name is Francine, your father's name is Henry. Your other brothers are Gabriel and Anthony--"_

_"Things that are easy to look up in a goddamn file--"_

_"Your dog is a half-breed named Keen," said Grunwald, "Whom your mother always said she hated but she never really meant it. You fled the draft, and Nathan was very disheartened about that, but he said you were young, he had every faith you'd come around. I guess that is why you are here."_

_"I fucking hate you..."_

_"We went on a mission together," Grunwald shared, "And were on a day pass to London when the air raids hit. We tried to help, but he was buried when one of the buildings collapsed on us--" _

_"The guard is coming back," Grunwald suddenly said, cutting of his own remembrance, looking around the room anxiously, "Get in the hole, I will cover it."_

_"You're a sick man," Daniel said, but also shared the other's anxiety._

_"Believe me," Grunwald told him, "Or don't believe me, just... leave this job to me. You will get caught, for god's sake, you're not very discreet, I could hear you working at night, I've been covering up your racket. Besides, you do not have the leeway to move around as I do. But if you do anything stupid, you'll get killed. And security will be heightened, effectively compromising my own mission. All I'm asking you to do is to sit this one out. Give me a couple of weeks. The Allies are near. And then I will have my chance."_

_Daniel grunted, noncommittally, as he lowered himself back to the hole. _

_"Please," Grunwald told him, from above._

_There was something about his eyes, Daniel supposed. Almost against his will, he gave the other man a curt nod._

_"One week," Daniel added, gulping, wary of his growing trust for this man, "If you do not get it done in a week, I'll do it myself."_

_Daniel backed away from the hole, as Grunwald dragged boxes on top of it, leaving him in darkness._

" " "

_In the days that followed Grunwald's discovery of them, Daniel, Alan and Ryan marveled at their good fortune to still be alive. They returned to their cells, like nothing had happened, and went by the agonizing days, wondering if everything was a trap, or if they truly somehow had a guardian angel on their side._

_Theirs was not the only anxiety gripping the camp. As Grunwald had said, the allies were nearing. The prisoners heard bombs and fighting in the near distance, could see flashes of light over the hills._

_"Think we're winning?" Daniel asked Ryan, as they listened to the muffled noise from their barracks. All the prisoners were restricted to their barracks the moment it became apparent that the camp would soon be invaded and liberated._

_"No way to tell from here," Ryan replied, thoughtfully._

_"Do you truly believe he's going to do it?" Alan asked, of Lucas Grunwald._

_"The best time to strike will be very soon," Daniel said, "While the Krauts are distracted fighting. If he succeeds, in case the ground troops lose, at least it's one less arms factory. And his blowing it up could also distract the Krauts and help the troops out there. The best time to strike will be soon. If he doesn't, we will."_

_In the next few days, the Allies gained more ground. The POW's cheered as the sounds of battle ever neared. Everyone crowded the little holes and tiny window slats on their barracks, watching the lights, listening to the sounds. Someone started a rumor that soon, they would all be killed by their captors, partly as retaliation, and partly so as they could not rejoin the ranks and fight against the Axis powers. There was some fear of this, yes, but there was also a prevailing hopeful spirit. The Allies were coming. Death or freedom would soon follow._

_It was at this pivotal time, that a closer explosion rocked the camp. One sharp, resonant boom, and then another, and then another, and each one soon followed by shaking and consequent flares and explosions from the factories nearby, which soon began to crumble in a wild, consuming, triumphant fire._

_The prisoners cheered all the more. _

_"He did it," Daniel said, grinning at his friends._

" " "

_The feeling of everything slowly but surely coming undone around him was vaguely euphoric. He wished he could stop time, get a better grip on things. But the sounds of the battle crawled closer and closer, the lights burst brighter and warmer. _

_The front was headed to the camp._

_Daniel was starving, like the rest of the other prisoners. The mealtimes became irregular the busier the German soldiers became dealing with the Allied onslaught. He didn't mind really, as long as it meant his side was gaining more and more ground._

_He lied down on his upper bunk, stared up at the ceiling. He dared to think about liberation. He dared to think about home, now, and facing his mother again._

_"What the fuck..." someone gasped, making his head turn. One of the younger, more impressionable prisoners was lording over a hole on the wall, watching the world outside._

_"What?" one of the more seasoned POW's pushed him aside, and looked at whatever it was that he had seen. "The hell! Will you look at that!"_

_"What?" Daniel asked, impatiently._

_"Looks like a fucking mutiny to me," the man replied, stepping aside as their other bunker-mates peered for a view, "They're dragging Grunwald out by his goddamn collar out there."_

_Danie shot up from the bed like a rocket, cursing and hissing as he hit his head against the low ceiling. "Bloody hell," he muttered, pushing his way forward._

_"Serves him right," someone called out._

_Ryan looked at Daniel with furrowed brows. Daniel stared back at him, though both of them said nothing. It would have been foolish to defend the honor of the man, if it meant revealing the secret of his identity._

_Ryan, who was one of the burliest men in camp, cleared a path to the view, and let Daniel look through the hole first._

_"Shit," Daniel muttered, eyes widening, as he watched a disoriented and uncharacteristically disheveled _Hauptmann _indeed being dragged across the parade ground by the collar. His clothes were smoke-fed, rumpled and bloodied. His face was heavily bruised and muddied. His hair clung to his head with blood and sweat. His expression had closed in a way that he had never seen on anyone before. It was an expression of complete and absolute _nothing_, betraying no fear, no triumph... just steely, impenetrable resolve._

_He was pushed to the ground, kicked on the stomach, and backhanded across the face. He would not stay down. The poor bastard was made of bloody rock, he was. Former subordinates would have been delighted to beat him down. His fellow-officers looked at him disgustedly. The General who was heading the camp was screaming something on his face._

_"Anyone speak Kraut?!" Daniel called out to his bunker-mates._

_One of the new arrivals gingerly raised his hand, "But I'm not one of them, okay? There was this girl on my block when I was six and--"_

_"Shut up and just tell us what they're talking about," Ryan snapped at him._

_The young man frowned, as he strained his ears._

_"The General is saying traitors are to be shot," he translated, "But that it is too merciful a punishment... They are asking Grunwald who he's working with in the camp. He is saying Grunwald cost them heavily and must pay, not just by his life but by his blood and sweat and everything else they can wrangle from him."_

_"What the hell did this guy do?" someone asked._

_"Blew up the fucking factory's what," the Frenchman Alan said grimly. Daniel looked at him pointedly to say no more._

_"Nah, Grunwald?" more than a few people pointed out, skeptically, "He wouldn't have. He bleeds Aryan."_

_Alan just shrugged at Daniel, and said no more._

_"Well the General said they caught him red-handed," their translator said, "No two ways about it. God! You can never really know, can you?"_

_"Wow, look at his face, man," the prisoner manning their little viewing hole said, in awe, "He closed up real good. It'll be like drawing blood from a rock-- Holy shit..."_

_"What, what?" Daniel snapped, pushing him aside. His eyes widened at the sight of the General drawing out his sidearm. His blood froze, as the angry German drew out five bullets out of six, pocketing them, and then spinning the barrel, as in a tight little game that no one ever really chooses to play, called Russian Roulette. Grunwald looked up at him blearily._

_Daniel's breath caught. He could feel his companions trying to push him from the view in an effort to see what he was seeing, but he held his ground. His blood turned to ice in his veins._

_The German officer leveled his gun right at the middle of Grunwald's forehead. _

_"God no," Daniel murmured. It must have been a prayer. He hasn't prayed in so long, but it must have been a prayer, because he'd never heard a tone of need and asking quite as bad..._

_The officer pulled the trigger._

_An empty click._

_The barest of flinches was the only reminder that Grunwald was human after all, not so cold, and not so fearless, or invincible._

_Daniel released a shaky breath._

_"The General ordered him taken away," the translator broke through his thoughts, "To a prison cell."_

_Daniel closed his eyes, and let himself be pushed from his spot._

" " "

_Legolas sat hunched, against a corner of the dank cell. He dimly reflected that they must have done a number on him, because he was feeling cold for the first time in centuries. _

_He tried to remember if he had ever come that close to death before. He had gone into battles that looked to be on the losing side. He'd been battered and grievously injured before, certainly. But had he ever come that close? He did not think so. That would have been a death where there was no fight at all. A bullet to the head. How very straightforward._

_He tried to remember what he was thinking, kneeling on the ground like that, just before death. He was disturbed, that he could not quite recall what was running through his mind in what could have been his last moments._

_Those moments defined a man, he thought, most certainly. People were persecuted and killed throughout history for their beliefs. They died saints with prayers on their lips and their souls looking toward God. Heroes died with causes and the lives of other people on their minds. Lovers died thinking of each other, names were the whispers of their final breaths. When the first Davenport he had known died, he died thinking of his family. When Aragorn died, perhaps suffused by the thought of his wife and child, his friends and family, basking in their love, ending a life of accomplishment, he just smiled, and retreated into his sleep. When Gimli died, he offered comfort to his friend. _

_They had been in Valinor, a theoretical paradise. But its haven was waning to the elf whose dearest friend was fading._

"Are you...scared?" he had asked.

The dwarf decided to try and make light of it. "Am I ever?"

His friend was not willing to play. "Yes. Once in awhile."

"A little bit," Gimli had admitted, after a long moment, "But you look more scared than me. It's... it's all right, you know. Just... just think of death as sleeping after a long, full day. Like how we get tired after a long, beautiful, useful day. You can just lie down and sleep... Nothing to fear for old friend. Do not fear for me."

_What will people say Legolas was thinking when he thought he was going to die? What was important to him...?_

How could I not recall_, he thought, dispassionately, _How could anyone possibly forget

_He tried to remember, almost desperately. _What was important...?

_In a haze of pain, he was driven to his knees. A gun was pressed to his head. Everything blanks out, everything is whited out. He had no thoughts for a breath, making him think, had he no heart? The idea jolted him back to the present. And then he realized he wondered at the mercilessness of gods that would allow it all to end here, like this? His life, after so long, ended by a single little bullet._

_Did he think he was invincible? Did he think himself immune, untouchable? And at the same time, how could he not have thought so, living in careful detachment all these centuries?_

Surprise_, he realized, _And arrogant disbelief_. Those were the things he was thinking about. He could have exclaimed, 'What? You mean me?!' at the gun, ask it of Death himself, and it would have been a fair representation of how he felt at that time._

_He was not a stranger to death or pain or hardship. But he had been fairly safe from their ravages all these years. It was not really that hard to forget._

_The German general pulled the trigger._

_He flinched._

_Not in fear of death, no. But in realization of his heretofore unnoticed attitude about his own mortality._

I can die_, he thought, a beat before he realized, _I do not want to..._ and yet the confusing tragedy of it all was that he was also stabbed by a sense of disappointment when the shot was blank._

What the hell do you want...?!

_The sound of a commotion outside his cell door jarred him from his thoughts. It did not take him long to realize he was being rescued by a band of fools._

_The door opened. Daniel Davenport's head peered inside the room, and they stared at each other for a long, quiet moment of consideration._

" " "

_"Good job on that blast," Daniel said, breaking the silence as he crossed the length of the room and squatted in front of the saboteur._

_"It was very structural and strategic," Daniel added, "It's all a pile of shit out there now. Dust and ash and that is all."_

_"Daniel, we gotta go..." Alan said to the Englishman. Their American friend also stood by the door, along with a two or three other POW's who had the guts enough to join the bold, reckless plan of rescuing ex-Haputmann Grunwald. Daniel, Alan and Ryan had to let their inmates in on the true identity of Grunwald to get their help, of course, but once convinced, they proved to be very determined allies. They had some very bold fellow-POWs join them in the rescue attmept, going through the tunnels they had dug to get as close to Grunwald's cell as they could possibly get, steal uniforms from the storage sheds, and then just run like a bunch of mad men and bully their way through the scant German guard; they were not expecting opposition from within, as the POWs were theoretically locked up in their cells and they had to busy themselves at the front._

_"Can you stand?" Daniel asked the alert-looking, yet stubbornly quiet saboteur._

_The disheveled blond set his jaws. If he did any sort of movement, Daniel did not see it. He just felt the spy stiffen in some sort of effort, before grunting and sighing to himself in frustration. He closed his eyes and lowered and shook his head._

_"That can make the crawling trickier," Daniel sighed._

_"Anything is better than playing Russian Roulette Round 2," Ryan said, pushing his way forward and hauling Grunwald to his feet and putting the blond's arm over his shoulders, "Now am I right or am I right?"_

" " "

_Every half-jogging step was coursing agony through his raw veins. They had done a number on him, by god they had. Everything ached. He could feel every single cursed bone he owned and broke to get to this point in his life._

_"Bloody hell," Legolas muttered, as they turned a sharp corner, and ended up in front of that hole on the ground they had made in that storage shed he had first caught them in._

_The Frenchman lowered himself down first, offered up his hands to catch him as Ryan lowered him to the ground. Daniel waved the other Englishmen in, and they hopped into the hole, one by one._

_"The thing about a hole, however," Daniel said with a rakish grin as he looked down at Legolas, "Is that someone always has to stay behind to put a lid on it."_

_"No--" Legolas gasped, except he was to weak, too weary, to put up much else of a resistance to the arms that held him back._

_"I drew the short string," Daniel shrugged, "But I'm a fast runner," he added, to the hesitant American who stood next to him, "Get on in there, Yank."_

_"Davenport..."_

_"Go," Daniel said, pushing him forward, and stepping away from the hole, "Someone's coming. That's also the thing about straws. They are very unfairly fair."_

" " "

_It was a long, slow crawl back to the bunkers._

_He must have blacked out once or twice, but hands and knees and anxious shoves and pulling eventually got him to where he needed to go. They heaved him up to the bunkers, where the other POWs were staring at him warily, and seemed to be weighing him by their eyes, judging, thinking, _Were you worth it all?

_They put him in Daniel Davenport's bunk. A medic looked him over, looking vastly displeased but assuring him that he would probably survive._

_"You're really what he says you are, right?" Ryan asked him, brows furrowed as he squatted next to Legolas' head._

_The elf licked his dry lips, croaking, "What did he say?"_

_"MI6," Ryan replied._

_"If I were, would I tell you?" an inside-joke. He coughed. He was feeling disarmed and ridiculous, "Has he returned?"_

_"No."_

" " "

_The next time they saw Daniel Davenport, he was hanging by a noose outside their bunker door, battered and beaten and very much dead. He had a tortured grimace on his young face, one that Legolas knew he would never forget. The Germans were pissed as hell that they misplaced the saboteur/spy Hauptmann Grunwald. They raided the bunkers, but the POWs hid him in the tunnels, protecting him fiercely, saying if they ever caught him, Davenport would have died for nothing._

_He cooled his heels underground for days, and was always brought food and drink and blankets and even the occasional dirty book, until the Allies came and set them all free._

_Legolas was debriefed exhaustively; they had to determine he was who he said he was, after all. His deeds in the camp, and other information that he had, made him a vital asset in the last days of the war. He was to be sent to England post haste to contribute his Intelligence information, aside from being one amongst the heavily injured who were to be sent back to their homes._

_The burly American and the Frenchman approached him in sickbay as he was being prepared for his journey. They gave him one of those death letters to loved ones, one that was written by Daniel Davenport after he drew the short string and before he went out to rescue Legolas. They said he should give the letter to Francine Davenport, Daniel's mother, as he would be able to do so sooner than they can._

_There was no way he could have said no._

_They left him alone, as he gathered his thoughts, clutching that wrinkled single sheet of paper as if it held all his treasures. Daniel did not have the luxury of crisp, clean paper, he did not have the luxury of envelopes, he did not have the luxury of time. _

What were you thinking_, he wondered, _when you thought you were about to die? What had been so important?

_Unable to help himself, he opened the letter._

" " "

Dear Mum,

Oh no.

If you got this, it must mean one of us had gotten screwed. But that's all right... What's new, really, everyone's going to get screwed over one of these days, it really might as well be for something important.

I'm not a hero. I wish I was one more laurel on that shining crown of yours, but that's all right too. I think Nathan, Anthony, and Gabe have given you enough pride to burst your heart. You needed me, you see, to keep your feet on the ground. Anyone can say a family with three heroes should be more than enough.

I still maintain that you loved me best, however, but that's between the two of us. You loved me the way a woman loves the straying vagabond, thinking he can be saved from himself. You loved me the way a mother always loves her son no matter the headache. And I adored you for your patience and the way you looked when I have finally brought you to the very end of your string.

You looked like that, when I told you I was escaping from my duties to my country, away from the death and the destruction of the war my brothers had only been too willing to dive into, the same way my father and grandfather and our old fogy relatives did before them. You looked disappointed and relieved at the same time. I clung to your relief, thinking my cowardice-- and it hadn't been anything but that, I'm afraid-- was at least making somebody else happy.

And then news came in of the deaths of my brothers. One by one they fell, invited to that One Big Party in the Sky, everyone but me. It was grief, it was madness, it was guilt, it might have even been jealousy of them that eventually brought me back to the drafts. Where I cleverly and quickly got caught, like a proper incompetent idiot. They sent me out to the fields for a day or something, it was hard to tell, and I got picked up by the Germans like the lightweight that I am. But now... I have been given the opportunity to do something as great as only a little man like me can do.

I cannot be a hero, but I think I can save one.

Is that transferable then? What does that make me?

Saving someone...It would have been another day in a hero's life, something Gabe and Nathan and Anthony and father could have done daily, but it is something very defining to me. We can finally prove that I have that seed in me, some of you and father's courage inside, some of Gabe and Nathan and Anthony's strength that was also in me. I am one of you after all, even just a little bit, even for just this one task, and this realization heartens me more than I can possibly say. It feels as if I have come home.

Thank you for your love. You have my heart. I regret nothing. But I do wish I could watch over you. And be with you.

-- D

" " "

That One Big Party in the Sky_, Legolas thought_, I'm not invited either. But now there you are...

Would your relatives ever tell you_, Legolas wondered, _That I have stood by them before the hardships of the world, and that it was you, their one black sheep, who had been the only one in a long line of Davenports I have looked after, to protect _me_ instead, and to die for me?

TO BE CONTINUED...


	12. Bet Your Life

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

11: Bet Your Life

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

Brad Greer stared, open-mouthed at the flatscreen TV on a corner of the airport lounge. His cellphone was to his ear, as he was just calling for Aragorn, when he heard Leland Greene's name on the news.

"Aw, hell no," he groaned, as he watched the news featuring developments outside the hospital Leland Greene was confined in.

"Shit," he muttered, knowing he was not going to get inside at all. When Elrohir told him to come to LA, he was expecting visiting and supporting an injured friend. Over the course of his flight going here, the situation had apparently grown astronomically as the news broke about the elf's genes and suspicions of government conspiracies. He couldn't at all count on being able to push his way through the crowd and security by now.

He fished for his cellphone, and dialed the Imladris royal's number.

"I'm here," he said, upon Elrohir's pick-up, "But the situation changed when I was on the air. I don't think I can get in."

"I know," sighed Elrohir, "I'm sorry, Boromir. I tried to call but I suppose you were already en route at the time. Nevertheless, _Ada_ and I are still following in a couple of hours. If there are any changes at all in security allowances, we have to be nearby. I made reservations for you on my account at the W. They'll know to take care of you there."

"You really shouldn't have..." Boromir started, before practicality overtook him, "You know what? I'm just going to say thanks. You can certainly afford it more than I can."

"And they're used to celebrities and that sort of people there," Elrohir added, "Security will be better. I would hate to sound like one of those conspiracy theorists but I know all of us are in some semblance of danger. You especially, as emphasized by the deaths of your colleagues."

"What's new, eh?" sighed Boromir, "I'll be careful."

" " "

In another corner of the airport, a tall, burly ex-Interpol agent navigated his way through security in a fake beard and a wig, exiting the rotunda. His conspicuous look was masking his true identity in exactly the way he had planned.

It did not hurt at all to note that he probably looked as imposing as Gimli the Dwarf would have been, had he stood a few head spans taller ages ago.

Jimmy Goran's fake ID's and passport went through the system, no problems at all. He was, after all, not a novice at these things. They accessed his records, found no problems at all with his identity, as he knew they would not. It was all child's play, and the system was his playground.

The tricky thing was how to break into that crowded hospital housing Leland Greene, and how to get to that secure floor he was staying in. That, he hadn't found a solution for just yet.

_One problem at a time_, he told himself; at least he got here in one piece, which was inarguably a feat in itself, given his particular constraints. He grabbed his cellphone, and dialed for Adrian Aarons.

" " "

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

" " "

"You have bloody strays all over the property," Ana told her fiancee, whose quiet footsteps she now knew to identify, as he came up behind her. She was gazing out the window, and saw several paparazzi scurrying around the grounds of Imladris, like little rat invaders. She turned her back on the view, and pulled the curtains closed behind her.

"And it's not my fault this time," she told him evenly, "I didn't bring them here. There were already some camped in the area, when I got here. This is all you, now."

Elladan winced, "Pictures of Legolas with us have emerged. Everyone is trying to get ahold of his friends. Rafael Montes and Adrian Aarons are in the hospital so no one could get to them. And the rest of us are here. Where else would everyone try to go?"

He winced, and paused, before asking, "Have you ah... spoken with your father?"

"Yes," she replied, tentatively, "He asked me if I knew what you were, before deciding that I could have your children. I said I knew what I was doing, that he is in no position to blame only you. And then he asked me if you had enchantments. I laughed and said you did. He thought I was being literal. He turned purple there, for a second. I took it back very quickly, and simply told him all the things I loved about you."

"You should check that grotesque humor of yours," he chided her, gently, "You will get us both to a wealth of trouble. And... and what of your mother?"

"She is touring Africa with friends," Ana said, "But I am expecting her to cut it short and we should be seeing her in the next few days. I called her, and of course she is worried, but you know very well that she always liked you."

"They hate me now," he muttered, dispassionately.

"They hate the situation," she corrected him, "Father hates _you_, though. Always has. Indisputably."

"Check that humor, Ana," he said, smiling.

"Maybe I wasn't kidding," she laughed.

He sighed, and enclosed her body in an owning embrace.

"I love you so much," she whispered against his ear.

"Is it all worth it?" he asked her.

"You bet your life," she replied, without hesitation.

" " "

Peregrin Took, Mark Brandy, Sam Granger and Finn Baggins were going about the property with a little pet project. With sneaky camera men abound in ol' Imladris, the Imladris royals have decided to temporarily outlaw all manner of elven dressing (which was still often worn in the property for their comfort and indulgence), in an attempt to look a little bit more 'normal,' in the likely event that any of them were caught on camera. As the elves prepared for miscellenous things concerning the journey of Elrohir and Elrond to America, the task fell upon the four ex-hobbits who were as always, willing to help.

Jeans were handed out from Elrohir's closet en masse, along with rock n' roll t-shirts (with some donations from the college hobbits), and of course, caps and hats and bandannas to conceal pointed elven ears. Everyone from the servants of the House to Celebrian, Elrond, Galadriel and Celeborn were outfitted.

"It's like a Middle-Earth makeover show," Pip took said to Mithrandir, in an attempt at levity.

"These jeans are nice, Elrohir," Mark commented, fitting one over his legs, "You got good stuff here. This could have paid my way through last semester, this pair."

"You can have it," Elrohir told him easily with a small smile, as he looked over at his father's attire. Elrond was already dressed to go to the airport, and settled for a trim-fitting polo in a wan, light gray and deep blue jeans. He somehow still managed to look very grave and forbidding.

"I know what's missing," Pip said, fishing around in his traveler's rucksack. He drew out a pair of aviator shades, and irreverently pressed it over the Imladris' lord's face.

"Perfect," he declared.

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

"Where the hell have you been?" Aragorn asked the dwarf over the cellular phone, "And what number is this that you are using? I've been trying to get ahold of you."

"I had to dunk out my old one," Gimli replied, "Interpol is hunting us down. They think we had something to do with the Ebola. And they've been asking about old pointy-ear."

"God," Aragorn muttered, "I've seen some of the news, old friend. You, wanted, as a terrorist. Hunted after by Interpol..."

"For the second time in my life too," Gimli sighed.

"Where is Haldir?" Aragorn asked.

"He was on his way to Vienna to regroup with the others," Gimli replied, "I convinced him it would be better if we were apart."

"He listened to you?" Aragorn asked, skeptically.

"He listened to reason," Gimli said, superiorly, before adding more truthfully, "His plans went to shit so I caught him at an off-balance moment. That and... he was injured and on scotch therapy. I think he's in Vienna now, scartching his head and wondering what maggot ate into his brain that ended up with him being there and me being here."

"Where's here?" Aragorn asked.

"In Los Angeles," Gimli answered, pausing, "I need to see the elf."

"No one can get in, Gimli," Aragorn told him mildly, and morosely "I am barely keeping my place here."

"How is he?" Gimli asked, in a low tone.

"Not...great," Aragorn winced, looking at the sleeping elf on the hospital bed, ironically _dwarfed_ by the machines that surrounded him.

"I am going to need you to define that," Gimli told him, uneasily.

Aragorn bit his lip in thought.

"They said that... that..." Gimli's voice trailed off.

"The reports have been fair," Aragorn said cautiously, "Many should have cause to despair. But... but not us, not yet."

"There is hope still?" Gimli asked.

"Only because the converse is unimaginable," Aragorn said, grimly, before adding, "He would want to hear from you though. Give me a second."

Aragorn pressed a palm against the elf's shoulder, and waited as Legolas leaned against the touch, and took a deep breath as he opened his drug and sleep-clouded eyes.

"I have master dwarf on the phone," Aragorn told him quietly, and smiling, as he put the phone near the elf's ear.

"He can hear you," Aragorn called out to Gimli on the earpiece.

" " "

'_Mellon-nin'_ were the first words out the dwarf's mouth.

It made Legolas' lips curve in a smile, the way it always did. A dwarf speaking in elvish, calling him a friend.

Gimli was inarguably his most unlikely friend, and embodied one of the greatest lessons he had ever learned in his long life. Their friendship began with the inherited animosity from their kin. It was a feud that began long ago, for a reason no one could quite recall, but most certainly none of them had lived through it enough to truly own the hate and the anger. But still, they despised each other impersonally, and also unfortunately relentlessly.

Soon, their shared experiences would outweigh the inherited hate that was never truly their own to begin with. He had come to respect the warrior first, because Gimli's courage and deeds were undeniable. And then came his appreciation for the other's stout heart, and then his irrepressible humor. And then he quite simply could not have enough of him. It was as simple as that.

Some people seemed to have been tailor-made to get along with him. There was Aragorn and the Imladris elves, for one. They shared the same mischief, the same manners, the same pride, the same values. It was so easy to fall into friendships with people whose shapes were carved the same way the holes in one's own heart was shaped. They fit right in. Friendships such as those that he had with the dwarf had to be carved through-- forced by circumstances, sometimes forced by pain and grinding, a deep and irregular shape in the once-ordered block of his heart was created. Deep and distinct, a significant and rare place was made for his friendship with Gimli, as if it were made by a master sculptor's hand. Deep, affecting, and very, very rare.

In Gimli's friendship, he knew to give people chances, to open his mind to possibilities, to thrive in diversity. It also taught him to stand with pride beside people who were different from him, to defend them, to live and die for them, but most importantly, to live and die _with_ them. Gimli was his first unlikely friend, and because of his greatness, was certainly not his last.

"I hear you got yourself into a wealth of trouble once again," the dwarf said to him, tightly.

Legolas cleared his throat, and more or less grunted in acquiescence. He was, however, never really big on being a yes-man. "So have you," he pointed out, _just because_.

The dwarf laughed, softly. "Aye. That I have."

A long, thoughtful pause befell them.

"I also heard," said Gimli, gulping at the lie, "That things are looking up for you a bit over there..."

"Have you now?" the elf murmured, bemusedly glancing at the doctor pressing the phone to his ear. "That makes one of us."

Both man and ex-dwarf snorted at him.

"Are you in pain?" Gimli asked.

"No," Legolas replied, before correcting himself, "Not a lot. Aragorn put something in me or other."

"Funny," said the ex-dwarf, "We used to say he put something in my drink."

"I guess," Legolas said, "I guess things haven't changed that much after all."

"Some things," Gimli argued, "Very few things. The important things."

"Where are you?" Legolas asked, worried.

"There," Gimli replied, fearlessly, boldly, a bit arrogantly, in that usual manner of his, "Very soon, I will be there with you."

"I'd rather you weren't," his friend told him, "I really would."

The dwarf decided to change the subject, before any promise could be wrangled out of him. "Are you...scared?"

The elf decided to try and make light of it, echoing the dwarf's own words from ages ago. "Am I ever?"

"Yes," Gimli replied in a hoarse whisper, "You are, once in awhile."

Legolas bit his lip, closed his eyes in painful remembrance. "I asked you that, in... in Valinor. You were fading, at the time. You looked so far gone. I didn't think you would remember."

"You asked me if I was scared of dying," Gimli said, "Of course I remember. I remembered your face. I admitted that I was, a little bit. You looked so sad. I told you that you looked more scared than me."

"And what did I say?" Legolas asked.

"You said nothing," Gimli chuckled, "Because that was precisely what you were. It eased your mind some, however, when I told you to think of death as sleeping after a long, full day. Like how we get tired after a long, beautiful, useful day. You can just lie down and sleep. Your look softened. You understood me."

"I did..."

"But I need you _not_ to believe any of that shit right now," Gimli snapped at him.

Legolas let out a surprised, rumbling chuckle.

"I need you to fear death like the very evil of the world at this moment," Gimli told him vehemently, "I need you to run away and avoid it."

"We're not runners," Legolas told him, "Never were."

"Fighters, then," Gimli corrected, "Hunters. Whatever you will it. But we will not succumb, all right?"

"I cannot make promises that are beyond my capacity to give," Legolas said, "Now _that_ I remember you saying also, back when it was you who was dy--"

"I need you to fight," Gimli said tightly, stubbornly.

"And I need you to understand that I might not win," Legolas said, quietly, and also unfortunately truthfully.

"I hate you," Gimli said, though he of course, meant the complete opposite.

"I know," the other said, with a smile.

" " "

"There's one more thing," Legolas told him, as they ended their conversation.

"What?" Gimli asked, tightly, sounding surly because he was for a fact very upset.

"I have to admit..." the elf said, quietly, but Gimli could hear him smiling, "This time around, you really are taller then me."

Gimli closed his eyes, and the bubbling in his chest was a confused cross between a laugh and a sob. "Now I know for sure that you're dying," he joked, because it was all he could think to do.

"I'll see you soon," he said abruptly, hanging up on his best friend, setting his jaws and tightening his hands into quaking fists. He steadied himself against the disgusting walls of the public toilet he decided to hide out in during his phone call. The floor, the walls and the porcelain were all stained, and if one narrowed one's eyes, it was hard to tell where one started and the other began. Dull green, suspicious brown... the lights dimmed and buzzed erratically over his head. It was just as well it was mostly dark, for he was certain better lighting in this place meant there was more to see, and the more one saw, the more disgusting the whole scene would turn out to be.

He was feeling like he was at the very pits of the world.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	13. The Prince

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

_12: The Prince_

" " "

_London, England_

_1950_

" " "

_Francine Davenport lived in that same old, dull gray house that had been in the family for centuries._

_It was raining, the same way it had been raining when Legolas first stood at its gates too long ago, wondering how to go about going inside. He looked up at the attic window where he had first seen Luisa Davenport. It was empty and dark and unused-looking._

_He could see the forty-something-year-old widow from where he stood at the gate, he could watch Francine work from her kitchen window. She flitted past his view, her hands were useful and busy and all too familiar, as familiar as everything in that unchanging house. She was making a hearty dinner for one, he noted. She wiped sweat from her brow in that graceful way that only a woman can manage. That old black dog Keen was following her around. Once in awhile the dog's snout would hit her leg in the general confusion of their frenzied moving around, and she would distractedly pat Keen's loyal head and then go on with the things she was doing. _

_He watched, intently, as Francine sat down on a table set for six. But there would be no one else coming, as she lost her husband to age and all her sons to the war. Still, she found the heart to smile a little, looking at the empty seats._

_He wished he could feel the same calm about his aloneness. He wondered if there were ghosts in the house. For her sake, he almost hoped there were. _

_He wondered if she knew that she was not alone-- dog and ghosts aside that is--and that he, like her, was a remnant of that noble family that had deserted them both._

" " "

_Legolas rented the country house next door to hers. It had a charm to it, and he had the money and time. It was the first time he had set it upon himself to look after a female Davenport, with her more domestic preoccupations, and he wasn't quite sure about the best way to do it; it was easier to be in the contsant company of the male Davenports, who had entourages or comrades along the course of their stellar careers. A woman... _this_ woman, was in practical isolation. There was just no way to be near her and watch over her, it seemed, unless they lived together (not a likely possibility) or he lived close enough to her. Besides, the lease was a pittance, really; after the war, few people were willing to pay very high for impractical things, like country lodges. But he liked this little spot of the earth; old cottage with a porch, weathered stone and wood, a needy garden he could work on. It was the best kind of place for him at such a point in his life._

_He set out for the yard on his very first day, hands and knees set on wet English soil. He plucked at the weeds, murmured at the flowers, trimmed and cut at straying branches and wild bushes. He also set about repairing his battered old fence._

_Simply because he was in England, the rain started to fall over his head again, this time, though, in a light drizzle that felt kind to his skin, just little brushes of the world, really, as if nature was touching him._

_He smiled to himself, and set about his business morning through late afternoon. He looked up from his work but once, when he felt he was being watched. The widow was by her window from next door, looking at him as he worked._

_He threw her a disarmed smile; the work in the garden was lightening his heart. She returned it far more reservedly. Her dog barked at him. She turned away and went about her kitchen again, again to prepare her indulgent, lonely supper._

" " "

_Legolas' eccentric neighbor seldom left her house, he realized, the longer he lived next to her. She would buy food, not a lot, she would walk past her garden and not notice its neglect. She never had visitors. She never sent nor received mail, though she checked her decrepit mailbox twice a day, her dog trailing after her and growling menacingly at him._

_This habit of hers reminded him of his heretofore unredeemed promise to give the letter of the late Daniel Davenport to his lonely mother; the battered, yellowing sheet of paper was burning a hole in his pocket as surely as it constantly occupied his mind._

_Of course... he could just walk on over and say he and Daniel were in the armed forces together, blah blah blah, the usual thing, he left this for you and all that but then if he did that, how was he to explain that, Oh! Coincidentally, he also moved in next door? He could not possibly tell her the truth, that he wanted to look after her and as she was the first woman in the Davenport line entrusted to his care, he could find no other way to do so but to live nearby._

_And so he let the letter sit on a cabinet in the house. He thought he could drop by the post one of these days and just send it to her with no return address. She checks the mail daily anyway. One of these days, he could do just that and knock them both out of their miseries. He just hadn't made up his mind yet._

_He was toiling in his garden again one drizzly afternoon, when she came home after her usual quick stop in the town. She did not want to get wet, apparently, and stumbled as she rushed toward the door of her house._

_She let out a surprised yelp, and fell to the ground in a heap of groceries and produce and arms and legs._

_He shot to his feet, vaulted over the low fence that separated their properties, and fell to a knee in front of her._

_"Are you all right, Mrs. Davenport?" he asked, thinking inanely that he hasn't had this 'job' of protecting her for a month and she was already getting hurt._

_"You know my name," she said, curiously._

_"I heard about you in town," he recovered, lying swiftly, realizing he wasn't really supposed to know her name. But he was a professional, after all._

_"What do they say about me?" she asked, as he helped her to her feet. He could hear her dog barking and growling violently from her house._

_"You should get out more often," he said, throwing her a casual smile as he stooped to pick up her things. She was beginning to do the same, except he waved off her efforts and did the gathering himself. He also took it upon himself to carry her things up to her house, leading the way. She looked at him oddly, but followed._

_She opened the door for him, and shushed her angry old dog. He stood by the door, looking at the mutt wryly._

_"No worries," Francine told him, "Keen barks louder than she bites."_

_"She doesn't bite?" Legolas asked._

_"Well she does," Francine said, "But she barely has any teeth left."_

_He laughed, and followed her inside. The dog followed him, and just kept on barking._

_The sights, the sounds, the scents... the house felt the same. The house felt insanely, unrealistically the same to him. This same door, this same room... He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, he forced himself to look at the nuances, the differences. He looked at new upholstery, electronic equipment and the like, marks of a different time, just so as he would not be overwhelmed again by thoughts of the past. In this way, he began to see the house's dents and flaws, the beginnings of her neglect. Her annoying, barking dog..._

_"You may just leave them anywhere," she told him, of the groceries in his arms._

_Absently, he walked to the breakfast room-- knowing exactly where it was, of course-- and put the groceries on top of the table._

_"You look as if you know where everything goes," she commented._

_"Some houses look like everything is where it's supposed to be," he said, dusting his hands on his pants, and offering her his hand to shake, "Lane Garrett."_

_"Francine Davenport," she told him in a strained voice that was no longer used to being used. But she had laugh lines on her flatteringly weathered face, he noted. Laugh lines and crinkles in her eyes that once were used very well._

_"I've seen you in your garden," she commented, "It looks very, very good. Is that what you do for a living?"_

_He glanced at her own neglected part fo the world next to his vibrant green setting, visible from the window in the room. _

_"Yes," he decided to answer, hoping she might need some work done and keep him around, so that he could look after her better, keep his job simpler._

_"I see," Francine replied, "Your garden is very beautiful. You must earn a lot."_

_"I couldn't possibly be earning a lot if I have all that time to tend to it, could I?" he said._

_"I suppose not," she frowned, "I don't suppose... you could possibly..."_

_"I come cheap," he guaranteed her with a reassuring smile._

" " "

_The earnest young man set to work on her garden the very next morning._

_Francine woke up, made her tea, and he waved at her from the window of the breakfast room. Her brows raised in surprise, though she should have known, really, since her dog, who was usually by her bedroom door to greet her every morning, was positioned by the window instead, watching the gardener distrustfully._

_"I thought I'd get a head start!" he said, his voice muffled by the glass. Keen barked at him. Francine frowned, and then focused on her breakfast._

_Garrett worked tirelessly throughout the day, she noted with a critical eye. He worked as if the garden was the only thing in the world. She had always admired dedication, and some have accused, also stubborness to a fault. It was why she married her husband. It is what she turned her children into. It was what brought them to the war. It was why she was now alone._

_She shook her head, and looked about her kitchen, wondering what she would make for dinner tonight. Having the gardener so near, though, made her feel a little bit crazy and embarrassed about her little nightly tradition._

_Francine stepped out of her house for the first time that day, trailed by the angry Keen, of course, and he set about finishing a particular leg of his task before turning towards them._

_"It's late," she said, flatly, "Perhaps you should return home and continue tomorrow." She offered him some wads of cash, the amount they had agreed upon the day before. He had an odd look on his face as he accepted the money. Amusement. As if it was absolutely nothing to him._

_"Thank you," he said._

_"What were you doing?" she asked, her eyes raking across her garden, "It looks like a bloody graveyard, at the moment."_

_His brow quirked. He was trying to stop himself from saying something clever._

_"It is a question of perception," he said mildly, motioning toward the disturbed soil with not a single piece of green left upon it. Wooden stakes were randomly stabbed her and there._

_"It takes vision," he said, "And a fresh start, sometimes."_

" " "

_"They are growing faster than usual, don't you think?" Francine asked him one day, impressed by the greenery that was beginning to spread all around them. She was a woman of habit; eat her breakfast, nod him a greeting as he worked, come out late in the afternoon to send him on his way and pay him. Her dog trailed after her obsessively. At least Keen had stopped barking at him by now. The old dog would have been exhausted. Maybe its voice ran out. Either way, Keen simply settled for quiet little growls and a hot glare. _

_It appeared he was making a more marked progress with Keen's master. As the days wore on, they found more and more to speak about._

_"Perhaps it is time that is moving faster than you think," he replied. She looked at him with a measure of skepticism. He just shrugged at her and took her money and walked home, humming a tune she never heard of. _

_The next day, she sat on the steps of her door, realizing her day was much more interesting watching him work than... doing whatever it was she did before the gardener came into her life. Keen sat beside her, looking morose._

_"You don't look like a gardener," she commented._

_"Is that why you look so surprised by the success we have achieved so far?" he asked._

_"No," she replied, "You just don't look like one. When you're not working, that is. Obviously."_

_"What do I look like?" he asked, offering her a nice little sapling, motioning for her to smell it. It was pleasant enough, but she did so absently, just to appease him. She could not tell what in the world he wanted from her. Keen sniffed too, and the alert gardener tore it from her reach just as she tried to take a bite. Her dull teeth clanked against each other. She growled at him and settled back on the floor._

_"I am giving you a working garden," he declared._

_"And what does that mean?" she asked, flatly._

_"Everything that grows here will be useful in some way," he said, "Everything here that you see will return the work we have put in towards its life. They will not simply take from you, they will give on to the birds, the insects, and even give back to you. This one..." he said of the species he asked her to smell, "Has no particular charm save for it's distinct scent. I am still debating its place here."_

_"Have you ever read 'The Little Prince?'" she asked._

_"I have heard of it..." he said, tentatively._

_"'It is the time you have wasted on your rose that makes your rose so important.'" she said._

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Have you heard of Ralph Waldo Emerson?" she asked._

_"Of course," he said, primly._

_"'If eyes were made for seeing,'" she said, "'Then beauty is its own excuse for being.'"_

_He was appreciating her wit, and her philosophy. One corner of his lip was beginning to quirk up in a smrik._

_"I need you to make a good part of this garden," she said, "Absolutely time-consuming, beautiful, and otherwise useless."_

" " "

_"You never answered my question," he told her, one day. It did not at all surprise him that she remembered what it was he was alluding to, nor that she had the temerity not to deny it._

_"You don't look like a gardener," she said, "I'd say you look like a prince."_

_"The Prince of England," he joked._

_"The prince who wastes his time on roses," she corrected him._

" " "

_Her habits began to change, he noticed. She woke up later, joined him more, spoke more, and prepared less for her lonely dinners. She even went out more frequently._

_"I have a sentiment you just might appreciate," she told him._

_He dusted off his hands, sat beside her on the steps up to her house from where she always watched him, and looked at her attentively._

_"Emerson also said: 'What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.'" she chuckled, "Isn't that clever?"_

_He smiled at her politely. He would not be swayed of his dislike of weeds._

_"You're so square," she told him dispassionately, standing up and offering him his daily wage, "I suggest we end early today, Mister Garrett. I have an appointment."_

_His brows shot up. "Where to?"_

_"You are not my nanny," she told him, assuring him right away that his suspicion must therefore be correct, that appointment translated to an engagement and an engagement translated to seeing a man._

_"With whom?" he asked, increadolously._

_"Oh just go away," the old woman told him, the way old women did whenever evrything that one did was a bother to them, "I'll see you tomorrow."_

" " "

_Legolas waited by his window, lights turned off that he may not be seen from outside. Dusk fell, and he watched as an automobile stopped outside Francine's gates. A middle-aged gentleman wearing a rumpled suit and bearing battered flowers stepped out, matting down his thinning hair. He looked grave, nervous and also irrepressible._

_Legolas' eyes narrowed. _

Is this it_? He found the nerve to think, _This is the man who can lure Francine from her isolation? This is it?

_He wanted to kick himself for the vicious thought and yet, one could not help one's thoughts. If they could be remedied, why he's sure he'd have much lesser problems._

She looks good_, he thought, as she stepped out to greet the old wanker. She brought out an obviously old but also painstakingly well-kept dress. He guessed they were of the same age, except she wore her years infinitely better. She looked regal, he just looked withered._

_But she beamed at him as if the world was shining on him alone. His face reddened with embarrassment and pleasure. He offered her his arm. They walked away toward his car._

_Legolas did not know precisely why, but he hated him quite severely._

_The elf looked at the window across from his. That stupid dog was watching the scene unfold too, looking just as annoyed as he was about the whole situation. _

" " "

_Francine woke in and around the usual time, found her neighbor out in her wildly, beautifully blooming garden standing and staring at the flowers, as if he did not know anymore what to do with himself._

_"Mr. Garrett," she called to him._

_"Did you have a pleasant _appointment_?" he asked her. She noted how the tone changed with the last word, but decided to ignore it._

_"Quite," she replied easily, "You look at a loss."_

_"There is nothing to do," he said, sounding surprised._

_She looked at him in a long, measuring way._

_"I have another project for you."_

" " "

_Francine told him they were taking a drive. She had several beautifully-kept, old automobiles in her late husband's garage. She asked him to pick one and drive it. He admitted that he was never very good at driving, and he picked instead the prettiest one._

_"I never had enough practice perhaps," he said, "I have been accused of a certain brand of recklessness."_

_"I have lived a long and full life," she laughed, "I think I can risk it."_

_She let him drive. Keen sat between the two of them. He drove a full two blocks before she said, tersely, that he should pull over and that she would rather do it herself._

_"I don't mind dying," she growled, "You did not tell me I would be quite sick and uncomfortable before that."_

" " "

_It was with a sinking feeling that she asked him to stop before a huge, rolling, decrepit graveyard._

_Hill after minor hill of dull gray stones jutted up toward the sky, as if reaching toward heaven, and all at once looking quite rooted and stuck on the ground. Old and new stones, neglected ones and ones with toys and food and full botlles of liquor by them, left and right, front and back, one after the other, one next to another. Stone after stone after stone, marking places of the dead._

_He gulpeed. He felt sick, or what he imagined being sick might feel like. Whatever. She led the way inside, trailed by her dog. He lingered by the gates, frozen. The stones looked like soldiers, he noted, the way they gathered at some patch of land, with disciplined lines broken here and there, clusters and lines and a general feeling of discipline and guardedness. He felt unwelcome. He felt as if every ghost that lived here turned toward him and watched him walk._

_He watched Francine walking ahead of him, every step taking her deeper within, every step taking her away from him._

Don't leave me_, he thought, inanely, jogging after her, until he caught up to the woman and the dog._

_"Afraid of ghosts, Garrett?" she aked hium, gruffly, but her eyes were teasing._

_"It is no laughing matter, madam," he told her, primly. And honestly._

_"I am very sorry," she said, "We can go, you know. I just did not think that you would be. I did not think you would be afraid of anything."_

_"What made you think such a crazy thing?" he asked._

_"You have the look of a winner," she said, "But I have been without sons too long that there are some things I may have forgotten."_

_"Like what?" he asked._

_"Winners can acquire wounds too," she said, "And all men have scars. We can go now. We do not have to be here."_

_"I do not want to," he insisted, changing the subject, "What is this project you have in mind for me?"_

_"The Davenports have kept a family plot for centuries," she said, "It has been much neglected--"_

_"We can go now," he said, quickly, quietly, and she noted, quite seriously._

_"All right," she said, after a moment's pause, "We shall go."_

" " "

_The next day, Legolas found himself driving back to that graveyard and looking for that god-forsaken patch of land where someone decided to dump all those Davenport bodies. _

I have never gone to any of their funerals_, he realized. He had been to a service or two, definitely. But the Davenports have almost always asked to be returned to their home to be buried, and he never followed. Partly because he was busy planning his own staged death shortly afterward. Partly out of practicality; he could not show himself to the family and then watch over someone else years later, looking exactly the same. He was bound to be recognized. Mostly though... he simply did not wish to go. What was there to see, really, one more body taken from him and reclaimed by the ground? What was so new about that?_

_He ignored the stares of the dull gray stone and their respective ghosts. He walked past the gates, past everything. He walked and walked and finally found a sizeable plot, surrounded by a low, weathered, spun iron fence._

_The grass grew wild here. There were ants and little insects crawling up and around the stones in the plot. There was one that landed on his arm, that he swatted away with an almost comical fanaticism. God knows where those teeth have been, what else that critter had been ganwaing at._

_He held his breath, standing amidst stones commemorating life after life of people he had served and stood with. What was he waiting for, he wondered. Ghosts? Music? Warm welcome? All he was met with, not surprisingly, was dead, flat silence. Even the wind felt as if it had ceased from moving._

_He exhaled, and his eyes watered._

_He walked around the plot, morbidly reading every single stone he came across, the freshest one belonging to Daniel. For the older ones, he parted the overgrowth, looked at names and dates and epitaphs that have not been weathered by time. Some of which he may have even written, if memory served. There was just too many, at this point. Too damn many. _

_The deeper he went into the plot, the older the stones became. The flora was thicker. He could barely read the names and words on the headstones, for the environment has robbed them of their human marks, smoothening them, taking away their edges, claiming them to softness and nature, to be again, a part of the Earth. _

_The names and years he could read brought him closer and closer to the very first Davenports he had ever known. He expected to find them, of course, but he was not counting on finding _her face

_He pulled at vines and weeds. They came apart from the old stone like a curtain. Etched on the stone was an engraving of Luisa Davenport's face._

_He pulled away as if burnt, landing on his rump on the ground. He stared at two-dimensional, mask-like represntation of Luisa Davenport at her most beautiful, the way he liked thinking about her in the rare moments that he did._

_"It's quite macabre, really." a voice said from behind him. Francine. He had been so distracted that he did not even notice she was there._

_"Macabre...?" he repeated softly, not quite finding his voice._

_"It is not a death mask, thank God," Francine said, stepping toward him, trailed by the ever-present Keen, "But her daughter looked just like her so Jeanne posed for a sculptor who made her motehr's tombstone. Luisa was the most beautiful Davenport... no one could resist wanting to remember her like that. It was such a rare face. I have records and records of stories like that. Ours was a crazy family."_

_"I can imagine," he agreed, quietly._

_"Why are you here?" she asked him, bluntly._

_"You s-spoke about this p-project-" he stammered._

_"I beg you not even try, Mr. Garrett," she scolded him, "Why are you here?"_

_He turned toward her with anguished eyes. Was there a way to explain it? Was there a way to understand it?_

_"I feel like I know them all," he decdided to say._

_"I find..." she hesitated, "That I believe you."_

_His breath caught, and rebellious tears began to seep from his defiant eyes. "I knew Daniel," he said, reaching for the letter in his pocket, "This was meant for you."_

_She looked at him in wide-eyed, devastated confusuion. _

_He pressed the letter toward her, urging her to take it._

_"This has been with you all this while?" she asked him, breathlessly._

_"He died because of me," Legolas confessed._

_She looked at him, confused and hurting, before her eyes raked through the letter that she snatched selfishly from his hand. She stepped away from him, and read it hungrily. Once, twice... perhaps more. He tried not to watch her, but he could not help himself. Her face was... was one that belonged to a courageous mother, and that was the best way he could think of it. It was strength, it was anguish, it was love, it was power. Her eyes closed when she finished, as if in prayer, wishing the letter were longer, perhaps. Or in some indulgent sadness. And then she opened them up again, and looked at him kindly._

_"He'd have died anyway," she murmured, "For a whole bunch of reasons. Most of them, lesser and worse."_

_He looked at her in a long, measuring way. "He asked me to look after you," he said, experimentally. Daniel hadn't of course, but Daniel was as much of a Davenport as the very first one he had served, that very first one he had given his word to. He wondered what she would think of that as his reason for being here, and it was the closest truth he could give to her._

_"I gave my word," he said, "Aside from the fact that it was the least I could do for him who had helped me so much. But I am so tired already...I have looked after so many...I'm not making any sense."_

_"No you are not," she agreed softly, falling to a knee beside him, putting a warm hand on his tense, quaking shoulder. "But I thank you for this."_

_"It should have come sooner," he told her, "But I did not know how to give it."_

_"I know..." she said, "And do you know what else I know?"_

_"What would that be?"_

_"You can't keep thinking you can save or protect everybody you wish to, Mister Garrett," she said, "Whether you think you owe it to them or not. Least of all me, or any of my reckless children. You think you can save me? I am fine. You think you can cure me, lad? But I am well. You on the other hand, are a sick, scarred man. His death is not your fault. And I am not your responsibility. I set you free."_

TO BE CONTINUED...


	14. Threshold

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

Hi guys,

Sorry for the late update. Please review if you can. 'Til the next post!

" " "

13: Threshold

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

"I'm not giving interviews," Adrian sighed to his phone for the nth time. His mobile has been ringing off the hook with unidentified numbers that reporters picked up from god knew where, asking him all sorts of questions that he did not welcome at all. He was tempted to let unidentified numbers go unanswered, but was scared of missing important calls from his friends, especially the increasingly plentiful fugitive ones with the changing numbers and urgent calls. And so, he answered anytime the blasted phone rang.

"I have no comment," he said to another caller.

"I really have nothing to say about that," he said to someone else.

"I am not at liberty to speak about that," to another.

"I would appreciate if you had a greater respect for his privacy," and another.

The phone just kept on ringing, until he answered that one call that was completely unlike all the others.

"You don't have to say anything, Doctor Aarons," said that low, silky voice, "I just need you to listen."

It could have been a prank or a death threat. He had also received a fair number of those along the course of the night. It bothered him at the beginning, but the sheer number of calls created a numbness that prevailed over the calls that followed the first nerve-wracking ones.

But this one. . . There was always that sure, sinking feeling when the danger was real. And he was having one of those profoundly unwelcome moments.

He did as was advised, albeit very warily.

"Your mother is a very beautiful and gracious woman," said the caller, "A lovely host. She is very good to you and your friends. Why, I just told her we knew each other from med school, and that front door went wide open."

" " "

The Estate of Imladris,

Vienna, Austria

" " "

"I have the worst possible kind of hate for that odious man," Eowyn muttered, as she watched an angry Grissom Warrington-- who once was known as Grima Wormtongue, ranting on a television interview.

Some months back, Grissom Warrington reclaimed the emories of his old, slithering former self. In his greatest fear of becoming a pawn to greater masters as he had been in the past, he sought to bring the world to its knees before him. He thought that if the people from the War of the Ring were sleeping in reincarnated forms, then some sort of Ring of Power must also be around for him to use. His obsession with his search led him to murder and terrorism, acts that ultimately brought him to jail, the place from which he was now being interviewed.

"They are evil," he said, in that lingering way, "They are not welcome here."

"They?" the interviewer asked.

"You think Leland Greene is the only one?" he scoffed, "No, no... I am imprisoned here because I hurt the bastard but I was only protecting all of us."

"You are imprisoned here for many other better reasons than that," the interviewer pointed out.

"Ha!" Eowyn exclaimed, triumphantly.

Grima ignored the interviewer's comment. "He is not the only one."

"There are others?" the interviewer asked, "Here? Now?"

"Do you have photos?" Grima asked, "I have been seeing them on the televsion."

The interviewer fished in her notes, and handed him photographs. He flipped through them methodically and quickly, finding one that he had been looking for. He raised a paparazzi photo of Leland Greene with the Imladris twins.

"There," he said, pointing at Elladan and Elrohir redundantly, "Look at them for crying out loud. It's quite obvious, isn't it?"

" " "

An exhausted, injured Horace Harding awoke from sleep to the smiling, kindly face of his former queen, the beautiful Galadriel. He sat up gingerly, mindful of his miscellaneous aches, and looked at her with a worried eye.

"You are not safe being back here," Harding said, flatly.

"We are for now," she soothed him, mildly. Her graceful hands reached for his human ears, "This was a surprise, even to me."

"Do you know why?" he asked, his brows creasing as his gaze searched her equally intent ones.

"The gods have their own ways," she replied, "What is so new about that?"

"I do not mind, really," he said, shrugging, "And _that_ may be the greater surprise."

She chuckled, "Indeed."

"There is beauty in finiteness," Haldir reflected, "And I have always wondered what the mortal heaven would be like."

"A very elven curiosity," Galadriel said with a shrug, "And jealousy too, I should concede. You will be going places I can never see. I can easily believe that this 'heaven' is your reward, for once having fought and died for these beings. But I cannot know for certain. We shall see. But I believe you are blessed, and am quite certain of that. Perhaps in the next life, you can return to us."

"Perhaps in the next life," he said, "I can be reincranated as your shoe."

"The gods have their ways," she said again, mock gravely. They have always had a comfortable relationship, the lady of the Golden Wood and her loyal champion. It was their first conversation since Haldir died in the War of the Ring, after all. He had been much mourned and missed by his people.

"We will be sailing soon," she told him, seriously, "You know this."

He nodded, "When I heard you were here, a part of me sensed that it wouldn't be for very long. To attend Elladan's wedding, it seemed at the start, perhaps out of desire and wishing, I am unsure. But more and more, as the days unfold around us in this menacing way, it seems unlikely."

"We have come to bring them home, it seems," she said, watching his face carefully, as she revealed to him what she had thought of, but was yet to voice to anyone else.

"I..." he hesitated, gave it a moment of thought, "I find that I believe so as well."

"And yourself too," she added.

Haldir's brows rose. "I did not think I would be welcome, this time."

"That is the land that was promised you long ago," she told him, "A reward you are yet to redeem. You have a place with us, Haldir of Lorien, mortal or no. But again, a choice that belongs to no one but you."

He bit his lip. An interesting option at this point in his life. Something to think about, at least. But perhaps... not yet. There were other things he needed to know more urgently.

"In your visions, my lady," said he, quietly, and cautiously, "Is Legolas to perish?"

"An interesting question, old friend," she told him, "Did you think about what you would have said or done if I had said 'yes?'"

"Is that the answer?!" he asked, alarmed.

"The answer is that some questions are ones that you should think of before you ask," she said, mildly, "And so I did not seek the answer to _that_ question in particular."

"I have heard," he said cautiously, "That there is little that can be done for him here. What else can we possibly do for him?"

"Your question answered itself," she said, "I suspect you know the answer deep within yourself by now."

"I can honestly say that I do not," Haldir admitted.

"You said," she repied, "That there is nothing that can be done for him _here_."

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

He couldn't remember the last time he borrowed Elladan's synthetic ear tips and hid his elven ears from the world. Hid himself. Baseball cap and shades and and all, Elrohir stood in the middle of the crowd standing outside Leland Greene's room, his very, very first stop after checking into the W with his father and meeting up with Brad Greer for lunch.

It looked like a hell of a circus; enterprising people were selling beverages and food, and too many t-shirts with crazy sayings that went from "I heart Leland" to "Go Home" and a few other things he couldn't figure out. The media was out in force. The lobbyists were camped out with their banners and posters.

He lowered his cap, huddled in his sweater, after leaving a message for Adrian Aarons, whose line was understandably busy, given everything that was happening. Everything was probably as crazy inside that hospital as it was out here.

_I feel like an alien_, he thought. Many people thought that elves were oddities and today, feeling as if he was the only one making any sort of sense in this picture, he did feel very, very alien indeed, if in a different sense of the word.

Amidst the crowds, Elrohir noticed an odd sight... Or perhaps that was unfair. The sight wasn't supposed to be odd, really. It was actually the normal way to be, in proximity to a hospital. But when everything around was abnormal, it was the one normal thing in the place that tended to seem quirky instead.

She was a pretty girl, pixie-like and strawberry blond in exactly the way that he liked. Twice the fun in a waitress uniform of course, except she was wearing a troubled expression and bearing cheap, battered flowers in her weathered, working hands.

_Waitress Jackie_, it took him a moment to realize.

He met her long ago, not a significant meeting, not very deep or long. She worked at that coffee shop across from the police station where Legolas worked. She flirted with him, because that was just the sort of thing she did, but he felt she had her eye on making the blonde elf jealous, and he didn't really mind as long as he had some fun too.

_"Sugar?" she asked in the most suggestive way that she could, and he grinned at her in appreciation._

_"No thank you," he replied, "At least, not the sort that comes with the coffee."_

_She winked at him before strutting away, and Legolas leaned over the table and said that he really ought to arrest the Rivendell elf for harassment._

_I miss Legolas_, he reflected, as he watched her look around, hesitantly. Probably like him, wondering if she should stay or go.

Their eyes met, and hers drifted past him as a stranger's would. He did not expect her to remember him, except her eyes drifted back, her head tilted in thought, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, before closing it again, and walking toward him instead.

"I guess neither of us can see him," she said, looking down at her flowers, "I'm mildly embarrassed, bringing these. And they cost so much too."

"It's the thought that counts," he smirked, saying something clever even if he didn't feel like it, as if he were on auto-pilot.

"You look very suspicious," she commented, "You looked better with your funny ears showing though of course, I wouldn't be showing it around lately either."

"I didn't think you'd remember me," Elrohir said.

"I remember big tippers," she said, "I didn't think you'd remember me."

"I have a thing for waitresses," he said, recklessly because he was in one of those moods where he did not really feel much about anything.

"You want to have coffee?" Jackie asked, "I was on my way to work. I'll be a bit early now. I can comp it."

"I seldom turn down things for free," he said.

They walked to his rental, a black Mercedes that she said she always wanted to ride. She tossed her flowers in the backseat, watched as he removed his cap and shook free his hat-hair.

"Better," she told him, honestly, biting her lip in thought. "I'm thinking Leland must be lonely up there, don't you agree?"

"Yes," Elrohir said, having no doubts at all.

"He probably didn't think we were friends," she said, "But I saw him every day, and he treated me very well. He was always very respectful. I thought I'd visit. But I guess that is that."

She paused, hesitating. "What they say about him must be true then. Those crazy things."

"Some of them," Elrohir replied.

"And you're related, right?" she asked.

"You can say that," he answered.

"I look at you and think these things they say about Leland must be true of you too," she said, "You certainly look sort of alike. Or... you _feel_ alike."

He shrugged, noncommittally.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Jackie said, looking at the road ahead of them, peppered by more people flocking toward the hospital with every intention of wanting to make the whole thing into some sort of historical event.

"If I told you I wasn't human," he asked, experimentally, "What would you think?"

"I can believe anything now," she shrugged, "Or maybe I don't know what to believe anymore. There is a difference. But the result is interestingly the same. I find that it leaves me with the one conclusion: your claim is possible."

"If I tell you I am all these things because I am an elf...?" he asked.

"You certainly have the ears," she commented, mildly.

"They're the most important thing, right?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Of course!" she said, mock-gravely, courting a smile from him as he parked his car, "Why would you tell me the truth, of all people?"

"It was a theoretical question," he corrected her, as they walked toward the entrance to the diner. He slipped his cap back on.

"I'm not an idiot," she told him, mildly. He slid onto a chair by the counter, as she washed her hands and put on an apron.

"Comfort of a stranger," he said, at last answering her question after he gave himself a moment to think about it, "The same reason why a bartender has his ears full of stories even before his clients are piled with alcohol. The same way people's favorite waitresses inherit fortunes."

"Are you going to give me a fortune too?" she asked him, wryly.

"No. Just a story," he said, smiling, as she poured him a cup of coffee. She leaned against the bar, watched as he sipped.

"If you're really an elf," she said, "It must be some story."

"Worth the free coffee, at least," he joked.

"I've never dated an elf before," she shared, "I mean there was that guy, he worked as Santa's helper in the mall I worked in when I was in high school, but that doesn't really count."

She was pulling his leg, he knew, and lifting his spirits. There was something very existential about flirting with a loose-canon waitress over free coffee in an American diner on a random day. He wasn't sure why, but he was glad they were having this useless, surreal little conversation. It was making him feel as if his problems were getting smaller and smaller.

"I didn't know this was a date," he dared her, gamely.

"It's only a date if the man pays," she told him, smartly, good-naturedly.

"Ah well," he grinned, "Too bad for you, then."

" " "

It was the gradually intensifying sensation of heretofore subdued pain that woke him.

His eyes opened, and settled on an unfamiliar face with a confident, leering sort of expression that threatened him, in no uncertain terms, even if the man was wearing the coats of a doctor. His heart beat a little faster.

"Detective Greene," the man greeted him.

Legolas cleared his throat, struggled to focus. The pain was dull, and deep, and all-encompassing. He did not know where to start to _feel_...

"Doctor?" he asked, uncertainly.

"You can say that," he replied, "But that is not important, at this time. There is something I need you to do for me."

Legolas' brows furrowed, there were very few damn things he could do for anybody from this bed. He coughed once, and it made his chest and stomach hurt sharply. He gasped at the sensation.

The 'Doctor' toggled with his medication, watching him casually as the increased dosage of pain management medicine slowly took effect, calming him a little and easing his aches, even as they dulled his senses.

"There are things I need you to begin to think about," the 'Doctor' told him, pulling out some photographs from his pockets, and facing them toward Legolas. The elf squinted to get a better look.

His eyes widened, when he realized they were surveillance photos of Gimli, disguised but still disticnt, leaving the airport. He glared at the 'Doctor' hotly.

"A friend of yours?" the 'Doctor' asked, "One of a very specific few that we have seen you with. Doctor Aarons of course, whom I'm certain you know we are also watching, and Detective Montes too. Both of whom are quite conveniently here. And now, the fairly reckless Agent Goran is in our sights as well. I told you there are things to think about.

"And that is why," the 'Doctor' smiled, "I need you to be more alert." With a flourish, he made a show of dramatically lowering the controls to the painkillers that he had in his fingers.

Legolas gulped, but held the stare as best he could, fearing the effects of what the man had done, fearing the pain, fearing the coming onslaught because there would have been no better way of describing it.

"What do you want from me?" Legolas whispered, feeling the blissful anesthetic slip, his breath begin to quicken and become more shallow, his glare losing its force.

"You will die soon," the man said, "You have to know that by now. When you do, my ironically 'immortal' friend, this little corpse of yours will be up for grabs like there was no tomorrow. All I want from you, is a will that yields you to our researchers."

"Who are you?" Legolas asked.

"That shouldn't concern you, really," said the man, "I just need you to sign this," he brought out a sheet of paper, "And make it known publicly, as in a statement, a recording, I do not care. But I need it to be unquestionable."

_It's getting harder and harder to breathe and think..._

"If I help you and you spare my friends," Legolas said, "Will you also protect them from everybody else who wants what they think we have?"

"I am not in a position to guarantee that," he said.

"Then what good is this to me?"

"I am the immediate danger to them," said the 'Doctor,' "Then at least, you can save them from _me_."

Legolas closed his eyes in pain, and in some form of defeat. He had a failing body and the love of friends. That was all he had. It was a more than fair price to pay... and yet the man was angering him in a very profound way. He could not think. The pain was killing him. His anger was consuming him. Everything was unfair.

He opened his mouth, and seemed to want to reply to the 'Doctor.'

The 'Doctor' leaned closer to hear him.

The elf's eyes snapped open in bold awareness. The anger was coursing through his veins now, giving him renewed strength. He knew he would have to pay for it later, but for now he basked in it, borrowed strength from it, recklessly.

The man leaned toward him, and the injured elf's hands found the sturdy plastic tubes on his sides. In a flash of movement, Legolas wrapped the plastic tube around the 'Doctor''s neck, twisted it once, twice, and then tightened it with all his might.

" " "

"What do you want?" Adrian growled at the caller.

"Save this number," came the slithering command, "Don't get in touch with the cops. I have dibs on your goddamn phone. Answer me everytime at the first fucking ring. Every time at the first fucking ring, you got that?"

"I can get very busy here-"

"That's your goddamn problem, not mine," came the quick reply, "There's something I need you to do for me. I think you have an idea what it could be."

"Enlighten me," Adrian snapped at him.

"Don't sass," the man on the other end of the line retorted, "I want Leland Greened's records. Everything you have there, I want it. I want all samples the hospital took. I don't care if it's blood or skin or a piece of his pretty golden hair. Whatever you have, I should also get."

"I can get it," he said, "But I can't get it out."

"Again, your problem, not mine," the caller said, "Keep your phone on hand. I will call you when and where. Get it done."

The stranger's voice suddenly lightened. Adrian could hear his mother go inside the room. "Want to say hi your ma? I'll put you on speaker mode."

"Oh for god's sake..." Adrian muttered, his stomach turning.

"Hello?" his mother called out, pleasantly.

'Do not trust him,' Adrian said in low Sindarin, wondering if there was anything at all within his mother's soul that would understand, knowing that the dangerous man was listening in.

"What was that, Adrian?" she asked.

"Yes, what was that, Adrian?" the man asked, softly, lethally.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	15. Leland Greene

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

14: _Leland Greene_

" " "

_London, England_

_1950's-1980's_

" " "

_The most apparent decision to make was whether or not to be happy about his freedom, and what to do with it. These things he managed to forgo for _decades_, as he lived out his life more or less alongside hers. Besides, he had already paid out the lease on his country house and he _liked_ it very much, thank you; he was staying, and if incidentally he was in some sort of a position that allowed look into her affairs once in awhile, well that was not quite so bad either._

_He tended her garden every few seasons, just whenever she felt she needed his services, and her philosophy never changed; he filled her garden with beautiful and otherwise useless things. However, as for the rest of life... well. As common as he knew it sounded, it was also true that the one constant thing about it was change. In the few times they saw each other, her face was often obscured by a shawl or a hat or a massive pair of smoke glasses or the shade of a room. He did the same thing, although it was quite apparent that while she did these things to conceal her age, he struggled to hide his youth._

_That man she was seeing when he was making her garden, came even more frequently as the quiet country days wore on. That traitor dog Keen was even warming up to the old fellow, to Legolas' profound annoyance._

_He would watch them from his window, going out, going back, sipping tea, talking... and the most considerable honor of all, one that she had not ever bestowed upon him, she had invited the man to one of her lavish, indulgent, once-isolated dinners, the greatest sign that the walls she had raised around her heart were crashing down as she welcomed someone else inside._

_He was watching that evening he asked her to marry him. Just as he watched that morning they were wed in her garden-- the one he had tended, mind. He was watching when he moved into her home. _

_It was a long, quiet life to watch._

I've never known a Davenport who lived this long_, he reflected, coming to the fairly macabre realization that perhaps he was just waiting for her to die, before moving toward the next step. She did not live a dangerous life. She was simple, and ordinary. He was beginning to think he might have to stage his death sooner than she was going to live out her own, at the rate they were going._

_He went on about his life, or at least, sloshed through it, as one would about mud in the English rain. He lived on his considerable savings, grown astronomical over his long and fairly pious life. He tended his garden. He enjoyed the town's tiny theater and cinema, and he also risked country driving in an effort to improve. He took walks in parks and empty estates, and fancied he could hear the trees- as he had been unable to do so in years- in the deepest parts of its untouched places. He had an affinity for the Earth. Here, he felt some sort of peace._

_Once in awhile, a passerby would admire his garden and the garden of Francine Davenport and hire him to do a job, right on the spot, based on the beauty of these. He'd do the work diligently, and soon found himself in the next estate, and then the next village, and then the next town, just working on gardens. His prowess was even officially recognized in a town fair that one of his matronly customers managed to coerce him into joining-- he won the flower arrangement and hybrid contests, besting all other spinsters, grannies and women's church groups that participated. It was one of the strangest victories of his long life._

_And so he went, landscape artist that he was (in this life, that is), prince on his hands and knees on dirt and grime, estate to estate, town to town. In one of these towns, quite a distance from the one he had made his home next to the Davenport estate, his gardening work somehow managed to involve his long-unused warrior skills._

_Systematic, methodical robberies have been occurring up and down the classic estates of the affluent neighborhood. The perpetrators one day made the mistake of choosing the grounds on which a spirited elven gardener was working._

_He heard them coming from the onset. They knew the owners were away, there was nobody there, no one but the gardener. He won't hear a thing, they said, he's hands and knees and dirt up to his ears out there. Probably old._

Old, _ he agreed_, Hand and knees and dirt to my ears, yes. But these are pretty damned good ears...

_He grabbed his rake, and stalked toward the house purposefully._

" " "

_It was the beginning of an interesting, unconventional and ultimately stellar career in law enforcement._

_It took almost nothing out of him, to stop those two-bit criminals from emptying out that estate. He called the police after he had rounded them up in a miserable corner, tied and stunned over their capture, thanks to the gardener with the rake. It made the local news, of course, a small little human interest story. _

_It got him thinking about his future. He found that, for the first time in centuries, he was personally interested in the pursuit of something, and that he was free to do so. He found that he missed the adrenalin of combat, and all its rightful purposes. He missed the strategy of it, the careful thought that went alongside the more physical skills of the body._

_He unearthed his highly decorated military records, and easily obtained a post in Scotland Yard, where he also excelled until, as always, the uncanny maintenance of his youth was causing too much curiosity._

_As life tended to unfold, the pieces fit little by little and quite surprisingly well. As his youthful looks again became a burden, and his job afforded him a deep insight on the trickiness of creating, keeping and killing off an identity in the modern world, his job also put him in a position to find a gifted young document forger trying to fund his extravagant lifestyle through a life of crime._

_Legolas gave him amnesty and a severe warning, and then slapped him with an impressive monthly allowance to live on not-quite too humbly._

_"Your services will be mine alone," the elf told the young man, "No one else's. You have what you need to make something better of yourself. But you must remember that I can take much easier than I can give. I will have need of you later."_

_"You, personally?" the young man asked, "Not England?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_"Dirty cop," the young man snorted, "Just like everyone else after all..."_

_"You can think what you want," Legolas said, mildly, "As long as you do what I am willing to pay you for."_

_"You have yourself a deal, Mister Garrett," the young man whistled as he looked through Legolas' records, "Or whatever your name is."_

" " "

As life tended to unfold. . .

. . .the pieces fit little by little and quite surprisingly well.

_After he found the link to his future, and as he started to decide on who and what he next wanted to be, he learned that Francine Davenport died peacefully in her sleep, in her home. She was survived by her loving husband._

_Legolas brazenly defied his older traditions, and attended her funeral, as if he was burying the entire family along with her. The only other attendees were a priest and her husband Stefan. Keen, he had learned, that stupid, loyal dog, died a number of years earlier and was buried in a corner of that family plot herself._

_He did not cry, not... really. Or perhaps he had, but not a lot, not enough for it to be remarkable. The time for that had come and gone, that day she had freed him, he felt as if he had already lost her. Her physical death felt like a formality. He had long been regarded as external to the rest of her life. Yes, the tears have come, they have gone, and now he stood by her grave, still and sad, though not broken or anguished._

_The priest said his prayers, and gave her husband Stefan a chance to speak of his late wife to their tiny audience. He was a simple man, a very awkward one. He gave Legolas a grimace of a smile, and read off a crumpled sheet of paper._

_"She had a long life," Stefan said, "But better, she had a full one. She had love and laughter. She made a beautiful home and a beautiful family. Her life may seem shorter than mine, but she will outlive me still, because before her I was dead, and in the few years we had, she breathed life into this shelled old fellow. And now that she is gone, I am dead again._

_"What better greatness can one say about a beautiful woman's rich life, other than that the world is lessened by her death? That her gone means a man's soul had died with her? That after she died, something is emptied? That after she died, a home becomes a house? That after she died, life has transformed into mere years? That summers and springs and winters and fall have become nothing but passing time...?"_

_He spoke on, anguished, and as mentioned, quite _emptied_. Legolas watched this broken, lonely man speak with a deep and gnawing, growing ache in his heart._

He had loved her much_, Legolas knew._

No one can say these things about me when I pass_, he realized with a start, _I have become so many people that I am nothing to anybody

" " "

_After she died, Legolas was given a freedom that was emptied by his realizations. _

I have reclaimed myself, but I am nothing to anybody

What do I do now...?

I can sail away again_, he thought, experimentally, just to see how the thought felt like. He blanched. He did not much like the sound of that. _

Why not_? he wondered._

Because you've been too busy living life alongside someone else, going by their desires and their decisions, that you have done nothing for yourself_, he thought, _And now you have a chance.

But I want nothing,_ he said to himself, plaintively._

_Not entirely true. . .He wanted answers, he wanted peace, he wanted distractions in place of these if he could not get them. That was why he had sailed back to the circles of the world. Distractions he got, yes, but now, at the end of his duties, he was as plagued as he was when he started, if not more so. And here he stood, centuries later, exactly where he had started._

Feeling dissatisfied and restless_, he thought, distastefully, _And again, wanting to leave

How many times do I have to do this dance_? he wondered. Was he to return to Valinor, and then feel this exact same way years later? And then sail back here? And then give himself new problems such that he would want to return? Back and forth, and forth and back?_

I'm a ghost_, he thought, dismayed._

_But if he stayed... perhaps seek his peace, one more time, one more try. One _last_ try. He is now free to pursue his own desires. He just needs a few more years. Maybe he can find himself at last._

" " "

_Legolas killed off Lane Garrett in a very spectacular manner._

_He first set about concluding all his affairs, of course; he fixed the Davenport cemetery plot as a final grace to them. He transferred all his funds and assets to an offshore account in his new identity's name. He arranged all forms of identification and qualifications with the forger he had paid on a retainer. And then, with the impressionable, young former criminal, worked out the details of his staged death._

_Legolas wanted a big explosion and a crazy mess. He wanted to say goodbye on a high, mad note. This was, after all, his goodbye to the Davenports, his goodbye to who he had been while protecting them, and his goodbye to England. It was time to get away _completely_. He wanted the sun, and he wanted newness. He wanted a fresh chance to seek himself._

_Lane Garrett, undercover war hero, Scotland Yard's rising star, and award-winning garden artist to boot, perished in a terrible car crash that left nothing but a smoldering ruin and a quiet memory. They said his one flaw after all, had been that he was not a very cautious driver. There hadn't been any body left to bury, but his acquaintances from work gave him a small memorial. It was a small footnote in a national daily. He read it while he was on the air, traveling first class, toward indulgent, extravagant Los Angeles in the 1980's._

" " "

_The City of Los Angeles, California_

_The United States of America_

_1983_

" " "

_"You have extensive experience and impressive qualifications overseas," the Captain told him, gruffly, not even raising his stern eyes to look at the English immigrant, focusing instead on his professionally doctored documents, "You have no family here in the U.S.?"_

_"None," Leland Greene / Legolas Greenleaf replied with a small smile, "Nor in England, for that matter."_

_"And you derived your citizenship from whom, then?" the Captain asked._

_"It was a good mix of a dead uncle," he lied, "And the diversity lottery. I have lived here for years by now."_

_"I can see that," the Captain murmured, "Pricey digs," he commented, looking at the address, "What would a man like you want to do with a job like this, hm? That is what I'm trying to understand."_

_"I believe in the law," he said, "I believe in justice and order, and fairness. I also believe in contribution. I have talents and time. You have need for men who are willing and capable of doing the work. It is a simple equation."_

_"Theoretically," the Captain snorted at him._

_His brows rose, as if to ask the man to elaborate on that._

_"You have to learn to get along and work with others," the Captain said, "You don't strike me as the type."_

_"Why not?" Legolas asked._

_The Captain crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at the applicant in the eye. "Call it a hunch. And I've worked and lived on that successfully for years."_

I've worked with dwarves and men and hobbits and wizards and elves, Mister_, Legolas thought indignantly, W_hat makes you think I can't get along with a bunch of Americans?

_"I would relish proving you wrong," Legolas told him, boldly. The Captain's eyes glinted in appreciation of his hubris._

_"I can like you," the Captain declared._

_Of course he got the job. His experience and qualifications even catapulted him over several ambitious and disgruntled heads when he was given a detective's post, partnered with one of the station's brightest and best._

_Detective Rafael Montes was a bullish man with a booming voice and a quirky grin that tended to vanish anytime he was in undesirable situations or undesirable company. Such as his introduction to Leland Greene had been._

" " "

_"Late," the Captain muttered at Montes as he entered the office. _

_The Hispanic detective grimaced, and glanced at his stern boss and the seriously _clean_ frigging blond boy scout standing by the Captain's right side._

_"Aw hell," Montes muttered, "Cap, I heard rumors, but this is just ridiculous."_

_The intense-looking blond's brows shot together in irritation, as he realized that he was not very much liked by his partner-to-be._

_"Nothing personal, blondie," Montes appeased him, "But I really don't think this little romance we got here is going to work out. Can you feel the chemistry, Cap?"_

_"It's filling the room," the Captain replied, sarcastically._

_"I mean I can do much better than this pastry," Montes said, "Again, blondie, no offense, nothing personal. I just don't think it's going to work out."_

_"Why not?" the blond asked him._

_Montes muttered a curse, "That accent won't be a hit down in the ghetto for one thing. I heard you were pretty, but that mouth is an even larger liability."_

_"What is your problem?" the blond detective asked, mildly, but with a glacial menace in his burning blue eyes._

_"With you, again, personally, nothing," Montes replied, "Everything that I say has nothing whatsoever to do with you, though it might not seem like it right now. The thing is, that the Captain has always paired me up with the most bad-ass guys this station has ever seen, and we get called on the worst jobs, the toughest, the ones that only the best can handle. And now I'm sharing a cab with a member of the British _Menudo_. You're in America, baby, this isn't going to be a tea party."_

_"You're kidding," the Englishman told him, flatly, sarcastically._

_"Captain," Montes turned to their boss, imploring, "Come on. Check this out. It's pretty obvious to me. It's not going to work out."_

_"I'll tell you something, Detective Montes," the Captain said, quietly, "And only because you need to hear it from somebody. When O'Leary died--"_

_"This has nothing to do with him--"_

_"Shut up, I'm talking," the Captain snapped at him, "I gave you the pick of the litter, and even then, no one was ever good enough. You've switched three partners and outfits in the last few years. Too many. It's about time you understand that no one's ever going to be like O'Leary again, all right? You're done picking. You've picked in the past and that all went to shit. Now I pick, and I pick Greene. Live with it."_

" " "

_In the squad car, the two new partners suffered an awkward silence and L.A. traffic. _

_"I'm very sorry about your former partner," Legolas told Montes. _

_Montes waved his hand away at the issue, "That was a long time ago. The Captain can get into this psycho-babble shit that doesn't really make any sense to anybody else."_

_Leland shrugged and let it go, focusing on watching the road ahead. He was coming to the fairly considerable realization that yes, while he had worked with dwarves and men and hobbits and wizards and elves before, he may be a tad out of practice._

_"Where are we going?" he asked the detective._

_"Well since it's just Day One for you," Montes snorted, "We're taking it easy."_

_It had of course, been a lie. Legolas knew it the moment he heard it. He understood the challenge of it, understood that he had been called out to prove his worth. This kind of thing got both the best and the worst out of him, surely, a fact that previous skeptics could readily attest to: when they were all younger and crazier, he had to show the tag-teaming Imladris twins that he deserved to be in their company; he had to show the younger Estel how the big boys played; and of course, toughest customer to please yet, had been Gimli the Dwarf. Lesser cynics have succumbed since, and he was determined to make Rafael Montes one of them._

" " "

_The first challenge was easy. _

_It was a rough part of town; Montes did the talking, claiming that no one's going to take Greene's accent seriously. _

_"Not enough street cred," he said, distastefully, "I mean, give it two seconds and someone's gonna say 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,' all right? So shut your trap and let me work."_

_Legolas bit his tongue, and let the detective do what it was he thought he did best, which pretty much comprised of manhandling suspects and uncooperative witnesses in more-or-less regulation manner, shaking them up, threats that mixed both curses and direct quotes from the law. Shake they did, and the warrior in him could tell Montes was good at what he did and was very confident in it. Information and truths were spat out in exchanges that ranged anywhere from tearful, fearful blubbering to sputtered theats. Montes was not afraid to cross lines to get what he wanted, a trait he admired._

_It did not take him long or hard to shake up a suspect so bad that he and Legolas ended up running in the streets of a bad neighborhood in hot pursuit of a desperate runner._

_Montes got on his radio and called for back-up as he shot forward. Legolas ran past him easy, jumping obstacles and vaulting over fences and trash cans and – Montes could not believe his eyes – _frigging_ cars! _

_"Slow down!" he found himself crying at his fresh partner, "Greene! Slow the fuck down, you know what you're going to do with him when you catch up?!"_

_Of course he did._

_Greene tackled the runner, rolled at the impact, somehow managed to land on top in a straddle. He had already disarmed and cuffed the felon, and read him his rights, even before Montes stalled to a stunned stop before them._

_The uniforms and the detectives were keeping score, and betting on how long the unlikely Greene can live with the impossible but gifted Montes. Round One went to Greene, easy._

_The physical aspect of the job was the easiest, of course, there had been no doubt in Greene's mind about that. The physical prowess of the elves could not be compared with anyone else's of the Earth. What Gimli once told him they lacked, however, was some pretty valuable people skills._

_Montes decided to toss him to the wolves on that one. _

_Montes had him run an interview with an immigrant who could grasp about one of every three words in English without Greene's high-brow accent. Toss that in and there was just complete and absolute confusion all around. Montes shut his mouth, and watched Greene's increasing frustration and discomfort, until he stepped in with his fluent Spanish._

_The uniforms who bet on Greene complained that it wasn't a fair test; Montes had heritage, who could have expected Greene to know the language? They were appeased by the fact that it was a language readily spoken by a large part of the population, making the ability to breach the language barrier a necessary component of the skill set. _

_Round Two went to Montes, amidst some complaint but general acceptance. Greene quickly reclaimed the lead a few weeks later, when he interrogated a man to half his life, in straight out, unblinking German._

_Round Four went to Montes in an inner city gang-realted investigation. He had been right; Greene held no street cred whatsoever over there, and jokes about 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous' did become hideously apparent, derailing the questioning irrecoverably. Greene did him one better in the next one, though; women tended to like his style more. So anytime he could get nothing from the suspects and their accomplices, he went to their girlfriends and their mothers._

_Round by round, the two detectives went head to head. Greene was faster, but Montes was rougher. The men liked talking to Montes and Greene got more out of the women. They were even good at playing good-cop-bad-cop. Montes' hot and Greene's cool complemented their team in a way that neither noticed or ever thought possible. As the months wore on, and the bets dropped off, the only people who were not aware that the game was done, that they probably should be working together after all, were the two men themselves._

_In trying to one-up each other time and time again, they became distracted to the fact that they were getting unimaginably excellent results and harder and harder assignments._

_"I'm telling you Greene, that kid... something's up in that head of his," Montes said over their usual cup of coffee at the diner across from the station that they frequented._

_Greene shook his head over a mouthful of lightly toasted bread. It reminded Legolas of _lembas_, and it was the singular food item that Montes never snatched from his plate._

_"Yeah why not?" Montes asked, "He has that runner's crazy eye, you know. We could have pushed him a little bit more."_

_"He was scared simply because he's a child," Greene reasoned, "It's the brother."_

_"Maybe," Montes conceded, "But the kid knows something, you gotta buy that. I know it in my fricking guts, you know--" he cut off mid-sentence, and lowered his face and looked at his coffee as if it was everything in the world._

_It was not an altogether new occurrence; Greene rolled his eyes and sighed. The awkward movement was always preceded by a series of constant events. The bell on the diner door tolling the entry of a new customer. The even and low voice of a gorgeous and intelligent woman..._

_Greene opened his mouth to say something, except Montes shot him a warning glare._

_Greene's lips began to curve to a knowing smile. "Come now, Montes. I've given you enough reprieve. I think I deserve a jibe."_

_"What?" Montes asked him, in genuine confusion._

_"I've said nothing of this crush of yours for weeks," Greene clarified, "I have been very decent about it. Now I find I must say something. I _deserve_ to say something."_

_Montes scowled at him._

_"How hard is it to go up to a woman and ask her name?" Greene asked, just to tease him. He knew full well just how hard such a thing could be, after all. _

_"Shut up," Montes grumbled._

_"I know her name," Greene claimed._

_Montes snorted. "Yeah, right."_

_Legolas' eyes glinted, and he did not at all have to strain his elven ears to come up with the word, "Julianna."_

_Montes narrowed his eyes at his partner, skeptically._

_"Try it out," Greene dared him, calling on the flirty waitress for the bill, and leaving some money on the table, "See if it feels right. I got this. I'll see you tomorrow."_

_He rose from the table, and shook his head and smiled as, when Montes thought he was out of earshot, he breathed, quite reverently, the beautiful woman's name._

_"Julianna..."_

" " "

_Everyone in and around the precinct had a favorite story to tell about Lieutenant Detective Leland Greene before long. He was a fixture (seldom leaving work), and such a character that it was difficult not to remember a story or two. Or three. . . Besides, he bore it with an unnatural grace that just begged to be aggravated._

_There had been that time he manned the phones and confused the callers with his English accent. There had been that time he walked into the precinct and people were singing happy birthday to someone, and he half-heartedly joined in out of respect. He looked around, wondering who was the day's celebrant, forgetting that it was himself. Montes guffawed, said he knew that Greene wouldn't be able to tell it was him until somebody told him so. Montes also collected some money on bets he made with people regarding exactly that outcome. The same thing would happen year after year. That was the Captain's favorite story. _

_Montes always claimed that his favorite story was when Greene, in his off-work hours in the middle of a storm, decided to play the hero and offered a soaking wet damsel in distress a ride home. Not knowing that she was a hooker, and that she was, in fact, categorically, a man. This realization came upon him only when she started flirting with him in the car. He politely asked her to behave that he may bring her home and out of the rain, or simply disembark. Now, the incident could have gone unknown, except many crimes happened along the streets lorded by the walkers, and detective after detective who interviewed witnesses and informants there noted that the women had a soft heart for gallant Greene. Anything there that he asked for, he got. And it did not take long for the best detectives in L.A. to find out why. It took them an even shorter time, to give him grief about it._

_While that story proved an entertaining one, Montes' true favorite Leland Greene tale, the one that to him showed the true meat of his partner, started with the body of a muscular man who was beaten to death, washing up on the river. _

_Theoretically, this was not such a landmark sort of murder, such things happened fairly often in many parts of the world. The strange thing about this case, was that there was a strange note found in one of the man's pockets, written on s terribly soiled, thick fast food restaurant napkin. It was not the first or only part of a message that someone was trying to give to the police, accounting for its fragmentation._

_". . ._holding maybe twenty, thirty men at one time. Feels like we're underground. Pipes, a lot. The 'gladiators' sleeping in cages. They put something in the water. Someone always has to die every time they get in the ring. . ."

_"Anyone else turn up dead like this over the last few months, you remember?" Montes asked the first respondents to the crime scene._

_"Too many," the policeman remarked with a grimace._

_"Any more notes in the pockets?" Leland Greene asked him, "Or if not notes, more tissue paper?" he looked at Montes, "It could have just looked like trash, if the ink washed out."_

_The policeman looked at the two detectives suspiciously. Interrogations by Greene and Montes were fairly legendary. They almost always knew what the other was thinking._

_"Someone from the inside is trying to send us a message," Montes said, taking pity on the confused-looking man._

_"From inside where?"_

_"I'm thinking gambling ring," Greene replied grimly, "for the most indulgent, irreverent thing: humans fighting."_

_The pair found three other notes in short order, upon investigation of similar deaths by beating, and the trace of a unique, aggression-inducing drug that was found in the bodies. There could have been others, except there was no way to tell, given the fact that the most telling evidence looked like trash, the manner of death was not altogether rare, and that some of the drugs could have already been untraceable by the time someone thought to take a closer look._

_Greene and Montes pored over the evidence, piecing together the notes._

_"Whoever this messenger is," said Montes, "It's the same guy. Our handwriting analysts concur that all these notes were written by the same person. Probably their clean-up boy. Maybe that's how he gets to slip in his love letters, eh?"_

_"The clues indicate that he himself must be a captive," Leland murmured, "He is obviously trying to tell us where they are, but he cannot do it very well. The descriptions are too standard. They could be anywhere in the city."_

_"I'd hate to say this," Montes grimaced, "But we're going to need a few more clues in a few more bodies to find out more."_

_Montes' unfortunate prediction proved true. A week past the last body found, another resurfaced. The two detectives were certain they would find a note in that one too, but were disappointed and had to focus on other things._

_"Anything in common with these men?" Leland mused, finding that all the victims were male, and that their ages ranged from 18 to their mid-20's. They came from no particular race, no particular economic class. Some of them have been reported missing by their families, others simply just appeared and vanished from the face of the Earth. They lived in different parts of the city, studied and worked in different spots. The only radius the two detectives could narrow down to was the entirety of Los Angeles, which was not exactly a great place to start._

_A week into the pursuit of the geographical aspect of the investigation, another body was found, drugged and beaten to death. This one had a note on its pocket, in an entirely different handwriting._

_Greene's jaws set, and he looked at Montes sternly. "I have reason to believe our previous informant is now one of the deceased."_

_Montes' brows furrowed. "Yeah?"_

_"We have one body with no note," Greene pointed out, "And the next message suddenly written by someone else."_

_"I think we stop looking at similarities among these guys," Montes, said, "And go take a look at that one kid, the one without a note on him. You think it's him, don't you? Maybe he left us a few more breadcrumbs."_

_They had been correct; late nineteen-year-old Christian Laraby's writings from school were unearthed and handwriting comparisons matched them to the gambling ring messages to a t. It was in retracing his steps and habits, did Greene and Montes one day find themselves caught in the very trap that had ensnared the young man._

_Drugs, thugs and a stealthy van on a dark street that Laraby often walked on his way to his girlfriend's house._

_Montes fought dirty, but the men were experienced and quick in their abduction, counting on their numbers, their chloroform, and their weapons. Montes went down in a dazed heap, blinking drunkenly as he watched Leland Greene fight like an angry barn cat._

He looks like someone else_, Montes thought, inanely. Greene's blue eyes turned frigid and sharp. His movements, which Montes had long known to be quick and effective, turned merciless and unabashedly _lethal. _He held nothing back, something that puzzled Montes' clouded mind. Had he always held back?, Montes wondered. He didn't know he thought so, until this night, watching him fight, as if he was set free._

_Montes was torn from his thoughts by a rough hand pulling him off the ground by the hair. The man holding him yelled for Greene to stop. To stop, or he would cut Montes across the throat._

_Greene breathed heavily, eyes flaring as he looked from Montes' captor to Montes himself._

_"Greene, don't--" Montes said._

_The sound of a bullet broke through the quiet of the night. Greene crumpled to the ground. Montes called out to him, and was hit on the head with the butt of a gun for his efforts._

" " "

_Montes woke to a blurry view obscured further by black, rotting bars. He groaned, and tossed his head from side to side, in an effort to clear it. Amid the blur, he found himself looking at the cell next to his own, where Leland Greene was sitting, back against a grimy wall, one knee pressing against his chest as he leaned forward toward his other leg, stretched and bloodied before him._

_"Greene?" Montes murmured at him._

_Leland was focused on other things. Beads of sweat ran on the sides of his face. He had torn his leather belt into two, irregular strips. One he was biting on, the other he had wrapped around his leg. His breathing was harsh, but his hands were steady and his eyes were clear with intent, doing..._

What the hell was he doing?

_Montes stifled a gag. Greene was fishing out a bullet from his own leg._

_Greene released a low growl from between his clenched teeth. He fished deeper. Montes cringed, but kept his silence. He stayed still, not daring to speak or rise, lest he break the other's concentration._

_Montes watched, arrested. This was the kind of man that Greene was. And Montes was not the only one arrested or impressed (and / or horrified). Their fellow captives, in cages not unlike his own scattered about the room, watched Greene at work._

_With a triumphant grunt, the detective drew out the offensive bullet, spat out the leather he was biting to keep from screaming, and tried to catch his breath. He threw Montes a weary but unquenchably rakish grin._

_"You're so single-minded," Montes commented, flatly._

_Greene shrugged at him, and grasped at the bars on the narrow cages, pushing himself up to his feet. The other captives were looking at him warily._

_"Who cleans up the bodies?" he asked them, swaying slightly, "Who has been sending the clues?"_

_No one spoke. They looked at him warily._

_"If we help each other," Greene said, winded, "We can all get free. This is a bullet. A bullet leads to a gun, a gun to a man, and that man to us. Now. Who has been sending the messages?"_

_One of the men raised his hand._

_"After..." he hesitated, "After Chris died, it was anyone who dared. Usually, the ones they get to clean up the ring after the fight, he just slips in the note with the body real easy. Then they take the body away. We never get to see the outside--"_

_The briefing was cut short by a burly, seedy-looking character stepping inside the den, flanked by his small entourage. By the way the caged men around them averted their eyes, Montes knew that the time had come for the gladiator-picking. No one in that room was ready to die or worse, wanted to kill. And yet many of them already have. It was sickening, what these men were brought here to do. What they were brought here to _be_. Killing transformed a man to something he would never ever be able to recognize again._

_Montes sat up straighter, and raised up his hand. "Chief."_

_It certainly caught the generally-ignored man's attention._

_"You looking for volunteers?" Montes asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leland's head whip toward him in disbelief and censure._

_"Detective Montes," the criminal sneered at him, "Saw the badge and the ID from that shit we pulled out of your pocket. Got the goddamn uniforms scouring the fucking streets for you and blondie over there."_

_"Yeah so go get rid of the evidence," Montes told him, simply, "Put me in there."_

_"He's terrible at hand-to-hand combat," Greene's calm, melodious voice piped in. If Montes didn't know him, he would not have been able to see the other's quiet, mounting desperation, "If you're looking for a good fight, he's not the one to pick."_

_"I guess it would have to be you, huh?" Montes asked, sarcastically, "Oh, please. You're fast, blondie, but you break easy. And fast is nothing when you're a fucking invalid."_

_"Me getting shot just means we are now even," Greene snapped at him._

_The mastermind looked at the two men with narrowed eyes. His short, stubby fingers drummed against his chin as he considered. Who'd have thought those busy little digits could have the power to give life or take it..._

_"I have a better idea," he said, pointing definitively at two random young men who were most certainly, decidedly _not_ Greene or Montes. "Them."_

_"Chief," Montes argued, "Come on, I'm scruffy, it'll be good, pick me--"_

_S_pare them...

_"Next week," the criminal said, "We can have a special bout. Cop against cop. It copies better. The bets will be higher. The seats will be pricier. We can even sell the live feed. Maybe a video. Cop against cop, a fight to the death."_

" " "

_His grandoise dreams did not get very far._

_Two missing detectives meant that the majority of the resources of the precinct would be focused on their retrieval. This, mixed with the recklessness that grew in the increasingly panicky gambling ring stemming from their desire for publicity and profit, and the resourcefulness of the two detectives now amongst the captives, resulted in a quick and efficient rescue._

_Montes and Greene sent in the bullet, and a few more definitive clues with one of the bodies that was to be disposed of. More specific descriptions were given, and even samples of piping and tubing material, things that were manufacturer or date specific, so that the brains of the labs can figure out when the structure they were in was built, who had done it, put two and two together, and then find them._

_The raid could not have come at a better time. _They put something in the water_, that first note they ever found had said. Montes was heavily drugged and up to his ears in pent up aggression, and the equally-dosed but more controlled Greene was running out of evasive maneuvers._

_"Montes, for crying out loud--" Greene yelped, jumping out of the way of a wild strike._

_"I'm sorry!" Montes drawled, even as he kept moving forward._

_Greene was getting his ass kicked in the ring, trying to be the better man and not kill his drugged-out, tripped-up partner._

_"Hit me!" Montes yelled at him at a short, lucid moment, even as he came after Greene with everything he's got, "Knock me out!"_

_"I'm trying!" Greene exclaimed, "I don't want to hurt you--"_

_The raid exploded around them, distracting Montes. Greene dove at him, bringing him down on the ground, hard. Everyone around them was panicking, running, pushing. Montes bucked and cried beneath him. _

_"I'm sorry," Greene said, quietly, against Montes' ear, a breath before he hit Montes over the back of the head, as hard as he dared. Montes did not mind overly much. As he lost consciousness, he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He gratefully passed out, feeling Greene's shadow towering over him and sheltering him. He knew that somehow, in his shade, nothing could touch him or hurt him, that nothing else could go wrong._

TO BE CONTINUED...


	16. Shadows

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

15: Shadows

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

Montes thought about many things, as he stared down at the gathering of people outside the hospital, from the vantage point of the waiting room window he occupied on his own.

He did not know why that particular memory stirred him now. He did not even know that he remembered, how it felt, beneath Greene's shadow.

_I didn't think shadows could be warm_, he thought, O_r reassuring._

Shadows were traditionally deep and dark and suspicious. A clue, a silhouette. It was an incomplete picture, a tease, maybe a threat. But when he was hurt and semi-conscious, in the middle of a raid and a rush of people, Greene felt like a _shield_.

_So what are you doing here?_ He asked himself, glancing at the door he would not enter, where that man-elf-alien-whatever-they-were-calling-him-now was lying, hurt, vulnerable. Alone.

_He is my friend_, Montes thought, _we can assuredly call him that_.

_And what of Julianna?_ He asked himself. He hated to be a cliché, but then there it all was. Maybe all he did need was time to think.

The man who had surrendered to save his neck, the man who had refused to hurt him, who had done so - only under the direst of circumstances and apologized afterwards too, who had protected him, and saved him times innumerable after that... He was Leland Greene, whatever he was and whoever he was.

_Montes remembered that after that little incident, he was checked into the hospital for minor injuries and observation of any other effects caused by the drugs he was forced to take before the fight. He was there for two days, visited by friends and family. No Leland Greene, though, which he found both odd and annoying._

_"But is he fine?" he had asked their colleagues. After all, one would think he'd be here..._

_They assured him that Greene was in good health, probably just busy finishing up the reports and things while Montes was recuperating, and doing some well-deserved resting himself._

_"Rest?" Montes pointed out, "He got shot! I mean did he forget? Did everybody?"_

_"He has that quirky religion," one of the other detectives said, "The one that doesn't allow 'invasive medical procedures.'"_

_"That's just a lot of macho bullshit," Montes remarked._

_"He sure convinced the doc and the captain," shrugged the other, "He had all these lawyers and papers and things. They kinda just gave him a bottle of pain pills, and then let him go on his way."_

_"That's a load of crap," Montes muttered, "If there was a boss, Greene would disobey him. If there was a god, Greene would defy him. Religious my ass. Who the hell does he think he is?"_

_The next day, Greene finally made an appearance, limping slightly, but otherwise looking immaculate. Montes was just checking out when his holier-than-thou partner appeared at the horel lobby, bearing flowers of all things._

_"The hell?" Montes snarled at him._

_"I thought you had one more day in," Greene said, mildly, standing next to him and looking over his paperwork._

_"Honey, are those for me?" Montes asked, mock-sweetly, nodding at the flowers._

_Greene just shrugged, "It's from my garden. Isn't this the custom here?"_

_"I'd have appreciated a brewsky," Montes told him, "Say, you got a car? I was just busting out of here and I forgot where I left mine."_

_"When we were abducted," Greene told him, "We were forced to leave it behind. It was towed, and is currently being held by the City of Los Angeles for, of all things, illegal parking."_

_"Shit," Montes muttered, "So give me a lift, will ya? You're here anyway. And you're late, you have to make up for it."_

_"That's what the flowers were really for," Greene said, sourly, as the two men began to walk toward the parking lot._

_"And they are nice," Montes conceded, "I mean, I'm touched, man, I really am. But would you mind hanging onto them until we get in the car? It just doesn't look very cool."_

_Greene laughed at him, as he limped alongside the stiffly walking Montes. They made a funny looking pair, all right._

_"So the flowers are from your garden, huh?" Montes asked, settling on the passenger seat, shifting uneasily as he sought a comfortable and fairly pain-free poition._

_"It's not so much a garden," Greene said, as he began to roll away from the lot. Montes settled down for a rough ride; Greene was not the easiest hand on the wheel. He was good, and alert, but by god, he was not very gentle or calm, "Maybe more of a pot. Or a series of pots, on a balcony."_

_"I don't really wanna see your garden, Greene," Montes said, wryly, "I'm inviting myself to your house. They didn't nearly give me enough pill-things. You got alcohol in your house? Or, shit, you got _food_ in your house? My pad's an empty ref, and I really am in no mood to go to the fricking grocery store."_

_"I'll treat you to takeout," Greene told him, "And we can wrap up the reports together too--"_

_Montes groaned, but let himself be driven toward Greene's upscale address. All his complaints were drowned by his fascination for the pricey and unbearably _clean_ bachelor pad, once they arrived._

_The apartment was a stylish and expensive one. The white marble floors were polished to a keen reflection, and antiques from all over the world, and some that looked to have come from beyond it, artistically melded with mixed-medium modern pieces like the white leather sofas of his living room, and the rattan and spun black iron of his dining room._

_There was a surprising and significant infusion of nature too. Greene had apparently taken great pains to have a fountain installed in his living room; it was made of an irregular, artistically jagged glass backdrop that cascaded down to a shallow pool lined with dull-colored rocks. It dominated the wall across from the ornate and unused-looking fireplace. There was a wide balcony liberally adorned with flowers and grasses. Some plants looked as if they grew in this apartment in the middle of the city but could not be grown anywhere else in the entire country._

_"This place is so clean I can eat off the floor of the bathroom," Montes breathed, looking around in awe. His speculative gaze settled on his partner. "You sure you're _really_ not some kind of royalty that you're not talking about?"_

_Greene laughed, a little uneasily in the other detective's sharp, perceptive ear. "My family got its wealth from the, uh, fertilizer business."_

Montes thought of these things, wistfully. He would have to ask Greene questions, later. But he found this time that the not-knowing was no longer painful, or worse, threatening. He found himself curious, and excited to know more.

_Is that bit about the fertilizer true?_

_Did he really call himself an elf?_

_How long has he been alive?_

_For that matter... is that birthday he always forgot to celebrate even his real one to begin with?_

_I do not know everything about you_, Montes thought, _But what I know I love, brother, and I bet there's more._

In afterthought, Montes realized that he should not have faulted Greene for wanting to keep his secret. The commotion outside the hospital, the people coming after him... who would want any of that? As Adrian Aarons told him earlier that night, _They want what he has. You can see it in their hungry eyes. _You_ wanted what he has. Everyone will, that is just the way that it is. Do you understand now, the importance of his secrets? _

_I do_, he realized with a grimace. _Shit._

He spun on his heel, and decided to go in that door and not waste anymore time.

" " "

"Greene!" Montes exclaimed, standing by the door of his partner's suite, mouth agape, "What the hell are you doing?!"

Greene was in no mood to talk. He was apparently busy strangling a doctor.

Montes shut the door behind him and shot forward, at a loss as to what he was supposed to do.

Greene was in obvious pain, and his eyes had the look of a madman, and his body was shaking with his hurts and his determination. He cried out once, because the doctor he was strangling was, rightly enough, struggling. Leland tightened his grip, and gasped as he coughed up blood that redened his snarling, angry teeth.

The doctor was turning blue.

Montes stepped in and tried to pry off his partner's fingers from the tubes he was using to pretty much kill the other man.

"Montes, no," Greene growled, "Help me, damn it..." he choked, and more blood spewed from his mouth, sending the incriminating red down his chin, on his hands, on Montes's forearm.

"Greene, let go the good doctor, all right?" Montes snapped at him, triumphantly prying the doctor free of Greene's clawed fingers. The man backed off and fell to his ass on the floor, hacking violently and pressing his hands to his bruised neck.

Greene was faring no better, clutching at his stomach, curling tightly as he struggled for breath in between his bloody coughs.

Montes thought that he was at the worst position of the three despite it all, standing there, feeling deeply and profoundly confused. He put reassuring hands on Greene's shoulders and back, trying to lend him some comfort as his mind raced. The place was a mess, papers and photographs and blood and loose tubes. The photos caught his eye.

"What the hell...?" he muttered, looking at the photographs of Greene's friends.

"Montes, he's not what you think he is," Greene groaned.

Montes turned toward his former friend, and then at the 'doctor' behind him, who was slowly gaining his feet. He started putting two and two together.

"You fucking bastard," Montes muttered, punching the doctor on the face and sending him to the floor, unconscious.

Greene stared at the unmoving figure glassily, before turning his eyes toward his partner. "Good shot," he said softly.

Montes was throwing him a rakish grin, except his partner's eyes rolled back and he sank completely limp against his bed. And then the machines started beeping frantically.

"Shit," Montes muttered, grabbing the unconscious 'doctor' by the coat and dragging him to the bathroom in the suite, to hide him until he could figure out what to do next, as he called for help.

" " "

"Nothing--" Adrian Aarons was saying, when he heard the code that cried for his help, and his hands. He felt torn and desperate.

"I must go," he said to the caller urgently, "If I don't go, nobody will be getting anything but a corpse. Please. Please don't do anything we'd both regret. For god's sake, please," he begged of the man endangering his mother.

And then he hung up, and ran to try and save his best friend.

" " "

They spirited Greene away, off toward one more procedure that he may or may not emerge alive from. In the harassed words of one of the overworked members of the code team, everything they were doing for him at this point was like plugging their fingers on the holes on the wall of a collapsing dam.

One of those team members, a nurse with bloodied hands, wanted to use the bathroom in Greene's private room where Montes had hid the doctor / intruder that Greene had assaulted just minutes before.

"I ah, wouldn't go in there if I were you," he warned her, getting in her way.

"Why not?" she asked him, crossly.

"I can't stand all this blood," Montes said, "I got sick. I still feel sick--"

"Aren't you a cop?" she snapped at him.

"Here it comes again," he said, pretending to gag, and heading for the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. He sighed in relief when he heard her walking away, in a huff.

He sighed, and leaned his head against the door.

_What to do, what to do..._

Things were moving too fast. Just as he had finally found the inclination to see how Greene was doing, he walked in on that scene, which frankly bordered on the comical. Muttering a curse, he sat on the tile floor, and looked at the papers and photographs he had shoved into the bathroom along with the unconscious 'doctor' Greene had been strangling when he walked into the room.

The 'doctor' began to stir awake, and almost absently, Montes cuffed him at the wrists, and removed his belt to tie the man at the ankles. His necktie he used as a gag over the stranger's mouth. He put the lid down on the toilet and sat on top of it, contemplating the sheets of paper.

Apparently, this little prick was showing Greene surveillance shots of his friends. The way he understood it, the man was threating them in exchange for something. That something was soon made abundantly clear by another sheet of paper, indicating Leland's name and his willingness to release his body to a medical research group called Strata.

Montes frowned, and then grabbed a glass of cold water from the tap and threw it against the 'doctor''s face, just before he snatched the gag from his mouth.

He was doing this one old-school style.

"Wake the fuck up."

" " "

Jimmy Goran had been both felon and cop long enough to know beyond a shadow of a doubt if he was being followed.

_I'm being followed_, he decided, as he walked just a little bit faster.

He heard scattered, quiet footsteps. There were ones that matched his pace, and ones that sped forward and away, maybe to meet him wherever they thought he was going. There were ones that slowed and backed off, knowing that their presence has been detected.

_Too many, either way_, he thought, grimly, _Too many footsteps, too many people..._

_Why do I even bother_, he thought with a sigh, as he veered left, stepped inside a club alive with youth and the night. He shed his jacket the moment he stepped inside, shed his beards, not caring if he made a little trail on the ground. He snatched someone's hat, and grabbed someone's bottle of beer. He took a fortifying gulp, before splashing some of the liquor on a couple seated at the bar. They both exclaimed curses at him, and reached for the bartender's rags to wipe at their clothing. He then dropped the bottle to shatter on the floor.

Distracted couple, waiters rushing forward to wipe and sweep, and he created as much of an obstacle between him and the men trailing him as he could, given the circumstances.

He rushed out of the club, out the fire exit. The alarms sounded. He heard panic erupt in the club behind him, as the people thought there was a fire. They all probably followed him out, but he did not stick around to find out. He hailed a cab with a sharp whistle and stepped inside.

"Where to, boss?" the cabbie asked.

Goran sank in his seat in the shadows. "I'm not sure. Just... take me around, for a bit, all right?"

The cabbie looked at him from the rearview mirror, suspiciously, "I don't know, man... you good for the money?"

Goran raised up a hundred-dollar bill by two fingers, and looked at the cabbie sardonically, "Just drive."

" " "

"No need to do that god-awful cop routine, Detective Montes," the 'doctor' told him sarcastically. Montes glanced at the ID tag on the white coat. It red "Suarez," though Montes doubted that was his real name.

"How does that routine go again, 'Suarez?'" Montes asked him, looking at him intently, "Good-cop-bad-cop, right? I've got a newsflash for you, buddy. Good cop's outside, bleeding his guts out his mouth because of people like you. All you got is the bad cop, and when I'm done with you, you are going to wish that routine was playing on, 'cos all you got is me, and I have every intention of going fucking _street_ on you."

"People know I'm in here," Suarez said, "They will look for me."

"No one knows you're in here," Montes bluffed, his face souring, "Come on. You'd hate for any trace of you to be found here. Fake coat, fake tag. I'm thinking buggered surveillance too. No one knows where you are, and no one can prove it. I can dunk your head in the toilet and keep it there until the kicking and screaming stops, and no one's going to be able to prove a thing. I like the feeling of power that goes with that."

"People might not know where I am," said Suarez, "But they know _exactly_ what to do if I don't come back to them bearing what we want. We know Goran is in LA. We know Goran is good friends with Detective Greene over there. We know where _your_ family lives."

"That is not the smartest thing you could have said," Montes murmured to him, voice and gaze low and dangerous, as he towered over the restrained man.

"Assaulting me is not the smartest thing you or Greene could have done," Suarez pointed out.

A sharp knock came from the door.

"Is there just one fucking bathroom in this entire hospital?" Montes snapped, irritated, as he crumpled his neck tie and shoved it down Suarez's throat.

"Detective Montes," - it was Adrian Aarons – "I was told you were feeling ill--"

Montes threw the door open, grabbed a stunned Aarons and pulled him into the increasingly crowded bathroom. He locked the door behind him.

"Montes!" Aarons exclaimed, looking at the tied-up Suarez, before turning to Rafe with wide, disbelieving eyes, "What the hell are you doing?!"

Montes found it quite ironic how it was that he had just asked Greene that same question not too long ago.

"How's Greene?" he asked Adrian.

"He's better, someone just toggled with his meds," Adrian replied, almost distractedly, "What the hell are you doing?"

Montes handed Aarons the sheets of paper that he'd just been reading.

Aarons glanced at them for a moment, and then back at him with the wide, accusing eyes, wary of touching the papers.

Montes shook them at him. "This is the guy who toggled with the damn meds, all right? Take a look and see what else he has his grubby hands on."

" " "

Aragorn looked through the documents with mounting rage and alarm. He recognized this man as one of those unidentified new doctors walking around the hospital since Legolas was admitted and his secret revealed. It was quite apparent what he wanted from Legolas from long ago, but he did not think they would resort to such nasty tricks. Endangering Gimli? Threatening Legolas' friends? Could these be the same people behind the threats to his mother?!

Aragorn let a low growl simmer just under his breath. The papers fell to the floor in a quiet heap, as if they just wanted to be forgotten. His hands curled menacingly into fists.

"You should not have brought my mother into this," he said to the fake-doctor, "Or any of our friends."

"Your mother?" Montes asked, turning to him with furrowed brows. This was, of course, an expected response. What was not quite as welcome, however, was the honest and jittery alarm on the fake-doctor's face.

"Who?"

The silence following that was quickly broken by the sound of a ringing cellphone.

"I have to get this," Aragorn said, picking up the call at the first ring.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	17. Smoke

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

16: Smoke

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

"I gotta take a leak, man," the cab driver whined to an increasingly impatient Jimmy Goran, "We gotta stop this crap now. Will you just pay me and get off?"

"If I give you another fifty," Goran growled at him, "Would you just shut up and hold it a few minutes more? I'm trying to think here."

"In the long run it's gonna be bad for my health," the driver retorted, "Keep the fifty, just pick a stop already."

Gimli frowned, and concentrated back on his thoughts. Where to go, where to go... So they knew he was in California. He expected that, but not this soon. That Mason bastard from Thailand had been right; he was just one genius in a pool, from an organization that had it's pick of the very best. Who the hell did he think he was, coming here and thinking he could just up and outwit everybody...

Still... he was free, for the time being. But where to go, what to do...

"Fuck it," the driver muttered, putting the car on breaks so hard that Goran's face hit the glass the kept them apart. The driver dived out of his car and stood against the nearest wall to relieve himself.

"Hey!" Gimli called to him, irritably. His hands shot to the doors of the cab, and he tried to open the doors to free himself and tell the driver to bugger off and just forget about the money, but they were apparently locked.

"The hell," Gimli muttered, his senses tingling.

"You trying to get out, man?" the driver called out to the imprisoned passenger, as he shamelessly continued about his business, "I'm a cabbie in L.A., mister. You think you're running away from me without paying?"

"I'll pay, I'll pay!" Gimli assured him, "I just hate being in a stinking cage--"

He fell silent, as the fairly alarming sounds of police sirens were heard over the sounds of the night. The lights grew brighter as it neared them, until finally the sirens were silenced as the squad car pulled to a stop.

"Aw shit!" the driver explained, pulling up his pants and zipping it closed. He did not bother to try and make a run for it. Unlike him, a more desperate Goran tried the locks again, and contemplated the wisdom of breaking open a window, squeezing out and then making a run for it.

_Nah_, he decided, as he tried to calm down, _It would be best if they never even knew I was here..._ He stayed as still and quiet as possible, as two policemen disembarked from their vehicle and walked toward the sheepish-looking driver.

"There is no stopping or parking here at any time," one of the cops said to him, "And urinating in public is also a mis--"

"Officer, can we talk about this?" the driver asked, "I got my license and registration in the car, everything's on the up and up if you just let me go get it. I'm sober as hell, and I've been doing this job a decade and never even had a parking violation. I just had to go, you know. And this guy--"

_Oh shit_... Gimli thought, trying the latches on the doors again.

"He said he'd pay me a hundred dollars just to keep driving," the cabbie explained, "Just like that. I said yeah but it's been awhile now and he wouldn't get off or tell me to go anywhere and I've been holding it so long--"

The two policemen put a flashlight up to Goran's face, through the clear window of the backseat. He had always prided himself in his instincts, and in the instant that his gaze brushed that of one of the men's, he simply, almost _gently, _just felt _unmasked_.

" " "

"You play a dirty game," Adrian seethed at the mysterious man on the other end of the line, "You are a sick bastard. I'm already trying to do what you want, what do you have to hurt Greene and Goran for?"

There was an unexpected pause on the other end of the line.

"You're talking a whole lot of crap on my ear right now, Doctor Aarons," said the man, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Adrian's startled eyes shot up to the man who was tied on the ground. He grabbed one of the papers he had dropped earlier, and speed-read through to the word he was looking for. "One of your people is here. We got him, he was screwing around with Greene. I know who you are, you son-of-a-bitch. Strata Research."

The man he was speaking with snorted at him. "Strata? They're just a bunch of suits. You say you have one with you, huh?"

"He's not one of you?" Adrian asked, alarmed.

"Hell no," the man replied, "We play dirtier, and we get better results, as may be apparent to you right now. Oh this is great. Really fabulous. Hm. I just remembered something. You said 'We.'"

"Hm?" Adrian asked, pretending to be obtuse.

"You said 'We got him,'" the man on the line said, "Who is with you? And no more lying now, I have the lovely Mrs. Aarons here serving me tea. You really must spend more time with your mother, Adrian, she's quite hungry for company--"

"Montes," Adrian growled, "I am with Rafael Montes. He saw the Strata man threatening Leland Greene."

"A cop," the man said, deceptively mildly, making Adrian's skin crawl.

"I did not break our deal, I told him nothing, I just ran into this scene and I thought he was one of you," Adrian said.

"He didn't tell anyone else, by any chance?" the man asked.

"Did you tell anyone else about this?" Adrian asked Montes.

"Who the hell are you talking to?" Montes asked back.

"Please just answer," Adrian begged, "Did you?"

"No," Montes snapped, "Why do you think I hid him in here? The situation looked compromising. If that bastard got in here, he's connected to someone. If they got wind that I kicked his ass, I'd have been kicked out of here."

"No," Adrian replied over the phone, "And he has no plans of doing so."

"Tell you what," the man said, after a moment of thought, "I'll do this in good faith, Doctor, since your mom's a good woman. I was calling to give you the first drop point and time for the samples I want, but I'll give you a grace period first. And if he keeps quiet, I think detective Montes could be of some use to us. You keep this to yourselves, or else Mama Aarons is dead, and the remnants of poor Detective Montes' family too. I will need both of you to kill the Strata bastard, though, and dispose of him quietly if you will, but make sure you leave me a nice little souvenir to prove he's dead. Get creative, something exciting. I'll give you ninety minutes, and then Ill give you more instructions on when and where to drop off the Greene samples later."

He hung up.

Adrian's brows furrowed, and he looked at Montes and the man tied up on the ground.

"You look confused," Montes said, uncertainly, "I know I am."

Aarons ran a hand over his face, and began to explain.

" " "

_I got a call from a man I don't know, and he said that he was at my mother' house._

Legolas heard Aragorn's voice as if in a dream. He kept his eyes closed in rest, but his ears and his mind he could not tear from the tale that was unfolding from the strained voice of his old friend.

"He said that he was going to hurt her, if I do not cooperate with them," Aragorn explained. His voice was low and muffled from behind the door of the bathroom, but that was not proof against the hearing ability of the elven race.

_Even injured elves_, Legolas thought wryly, as he reflected that it was actually one of the few senses he owned that did not dull or flare with pain, at this time.

"Cooperate?" the man he was speaking with was Montes, Legolas realized, a bit surprised.

"They wanted..." Aragorn struggled for a moment, "They wanted copies of anything that the hospital had on Leland Greene, and any samples too. I was... I was going to give them what they were asking for. I knew Legolas – Leland, that is – he wouldn't mind. I might have been wrong, I haven't decided, really, everything was happening so fast. I thought of getting permission somehow, which I could not do short of telling him the danger my mother was in; he would have just felt bad for something he would perceive as his fault.

"Anyway, when I saw this man with you," Aragorn continued, "I thought they were working for the same company. I thought we had a bargaining chip. But they are not working together. The man who called me... he said that you and I should keep the threats to ourselves, and... and kill this man, who is one of their competitors. If we do not follow their orders, they will hurt my mother, and your family."

Legolas' eyes opened to slits. The lights were dimmed in his otherwise empty room. Everything was a blur, mixing together indistinctly, like how his life was looking right now. Past and present melded together, jointly obscuring the future. He wished he were stronger. He wished he was better and faster and out of this bind. He just wished he was stronger. Everything was his fault, Aragorn had been right in thinking he would believe so.

_Because it's true_, he thought, simply, and miserably.

Aragorn's mother was in danger, as was Gimli, and Montes' family. All because of what he was.

_This is what I've been fearing_, he thought, _This is the nightmare come true, except much worse._

When he first decided to keep his secret, it was to protect himself, at the clever advice of the first man he had met upon his return. He'd always known that by some providence, he had come across Davenport, who was wise and generous with his knowing. It literally could have been anyone instead; people who could have taken advantage of his naivete and stolen the wealth he had with him, people who could have used him for their own ends or, even quite simply, people who feared him and hurt him. Anytime at all that he felt the slightest bit sour about having been hammered by the stormy winds of Manwe on his journey back, he thought about Davenport and how, somehow, the machinations of the gods have brought him into the hands of a good man.

It did not take him long to realize how Davenport's prudent advice was the correct action; he'd have been thought of as insane, perhaps he'd been outcast, or worse, been subject to the times' crazy ideas as cures for the addled. He could have been burnt at the stake, beheaded, imprisoned... The times were spectacularly ripe with violent possibilities for a man who dared to be different, or, in his case, simply _was_ different.

After he met Luisa Davenport again in Paris, this desire to keep his secret in order to protect himself steadily grew outward, toward the protection of others. To keep his secret from those he loved was to protect them; protect them from the judgment of others, protect them from the pain of destined parting.

The modern world ushered in a new kind of fear. As the powers of the world shifted toward the use of medicinal and biological knowledge to lord over the others, he knew that his secret had transformed from being a simple threat to himself and a threat to the hearts of those he loved, into something far more dangerous: it had become a coveted weapon.

And now... and now Gimli was in danger, Montes' children, Aragorn's mother... His friends were in danger. And the threat was faceless, and all-encompassing. Is it the government? Is it a medical research group (or, for that matter, how many?)? Is it a group of terrorists (or, for that matter, how many?!)? Is it this country or that, this rebellion or that, this cause or that?

The villain was like smoke; thready, sneaky, elusive but undoubtedly present smoke. He could not touch it, could not kill it, but he could choke on it, feel its presence with every breath and every movement.

Every battle he had ever fought, from the evil wars brought on by Mordor, to tribes of the New World, the World Wars, the crimes on the streets, there was always someone to fight. There was a face, a body, a direction. He never thought he would one day have to stare down the length of the world, north and south and east and west, and every infinitesimal direction in between, and not know who to strike, or how.

_I have too many enemies,_ did not seem to appropriately capture the situation. Some of the people who wanted to cut him up and use him might have legitimate, noble ends. Even the man he had attempted to strangle in his rash, pain-obscured judgment, might have had some noble, life-saving cause that he did not know about.

_I have no enemies_, seemed far more fair.

Legolas closed his eyes and sighed, finding that his vision was not at all improving, although his realizations were slowly coming to a better focus.

_So what is one to do about it?_ He wondered. He wished, fervently, that he could bring it upon himself to believe that there is nothing he could do from this bed. He wished he felt defeated and helpless. That way he can just sit still, be at some form of peace. But he's lived too long to start believing that now.

Which brought him back to the same question, unfortunately.

_What to do..._?

If he was really dying, then he wouldn't want it to be for nothing. People died for nothing all the time. Elves, on the other hand, weren't supposed to die at all, least of all for no good reason. If he were to die, as odds seemed to show would happen, then he would want it to be for something important.

His assets were easy enough to distribute. Some for friends, certainly, some for charitable foundations. He already had some in mind, particularly regarding the environment. But this body... the one that everyone was apparently fighting tooth and nail for. What was one to do with it?

In the world of extremes, there were only two things he could do, he realized.

There was no middle ground. To give to some and to deprive others was hideously complicated; there really was no way for him to decide whom to give this body, and presumably all of its desired attributes, to – this foundation or this group? This government or that? Who's to say that curing AIDS is more important than curing cancer, or the other way around? Who's to say that regenerative brain disease should be prioritized? Who's to say that this government is more responsible than this one?

Indeed, in the world of extremes, he could not give to some and then deny the others. He did not want that choice, and it was not one that he thought anyone in the world is ready to make on his own.

To keep things on a level playing field, he could choose to decide to deprive everyone of the right to take him apart. Cremation, right after death. But this was problematic in defeating his desire to aid people in general, and he wondered if he could count on that wish being honored at all- people can be wily, and clever, and deceitful. Or maybe he was starting to listen to too many conspiracy theories. Either way, he was not comfortable with that idea.

The other thing he could do to keep the field level for all, was to give himself to anyone who simply _asked_.

_I have no enemies..._

_But that's impossible_, he berated himself, _Isn't it?_

But the more he twirled the idea around in his head, the better it was beginning to sound. If he couldn't keep the secrets of his body from anybody, and he didn't want to bear the impossible burden of choosing whom to give it to, then why not just give it to _everybody_? If the acquisition of his genes were systematic and accessible, then it would eliminate the threats to his friends and their families wouldn't it, since those who wanted what he had wouldn't have to resort to threats and violence to get it?

The more he thought about it, the idea sounded less and less insane. In the movies, if he remembered correctly, didn't this one comic-book adaptation seek to annihilate the prejudice against those who were different – mutants, they were called – by making everyone in the world just like them?

In real life, isn't the use of nuclear weapons checked by the very fact that all the other most powerful nations had it also? That no one dared unleash something that powerful, and have it shot back at them?

The field can be leveled, he decided. If you cannot keep an asset from being taken by a villain, then give it to everybody and share the advantage. If he could just give everyone what they wanted, then the threats should stop.

_The question_, he sighed, _As always, is How._

" " "

"So we gotta kill this guy, huh?" Montes asked.

Adrian Aarons shot him a glare, "No one's going to be killing anybody."

"I don't know," Montes remarked, "I really am ready and willing to kill off this prick to protect my kids. Besides, he's an asshole."

Montes wondered, if Aarons could tell he was beginning the good-cop-bad-cop routine with him, or if the look of dismay was heartfelt. When he started working with Leland Greene a good bunch of years ago, Greene proved to be a quick study.

"You really shouldn't," 'Suarez' said, his voice trembling, a bit.

"Yeah?" snorted Montes, "And why the hell not? Are you going to waste my time and start appealing to my better self?"

"Once you kill a man you will never be the same again--"

"That's a lot of shit," Montes cut him off, "Come on, Suarez. You gotta give a little. If you're going to keep the information to yourself, then you're only confirming my belief that, right now, your only use to me is if you're dead. You got anything to say that will make me change my mind? Time's a-wastin. How much time we have, doc?"

"An hour thirty," Adrian replied, hesitantly, "A bit less by now..."

"Okay 'Suarez,'" Montes lowered his face next to the man's, "Let's start with something easy. Real name?"

"It really is Suarez," the man replied, gulping, after a moment of thought. His eyes were wide as saucers, "They thought it would be the last thing to be believed if I displayed it in this manner."

"You're really a doctor?" Montes asked.

"I am," he replied, "But I haven't seriously practiced in years. My work is more administrative in nature. I look after the interests of the company from a managerial perspective."

"The company is Strata?" Adrian confirmed, "And when the man who is threatening my mother called you a bunch of suits, what did he mean?"

"That is the name of the company," Suarez replied, "And I guess he would say that, if he's the sort of operator that I think he is. You see, the difference between him and me is that I wanted Greene to sign a contract. You may question my methods, but I needed his name on that sheet of paper, to be able to conduct my business. Your villain, on the other hand, was going to trade parts of Greene for your mother's life. I am connected to the government, and derive power from those networks. He, on the other hand, knocks on innocent women's doors and threatens their lives."

"Who was after Greene in the first place?" Montes asked, "That night in the alley?"

"Did it feel clean, kind of professional?" Suarez asked, "It might have been the CIA. Maybe Military. That is if you look internally. Mercenaries can also be an option, hired by a miscellany of characters from here and abroad. I know for a certainty it wasn't us. But I'll tell you what. How important is that, really, who was after him first? Everyone is after him _now_. I am apparently, as you know for certain by now, not the only one interested in him. Look out the goddamn window. Forget about what brought him here. Think about what happens next. If he signs over to us, we guarantee that his body will be treated with respect, and the studies upon it will be professional, highly-documented, and relevant to the human race."

"Save the sales pitch," Montes groaned, "And watch the lingo, buddy. No one's calling Greene 'The Body' just yet, all right? Or else I'm going to get very annoyed."

"The _modus operandi_ of this man threatening my mother," said Adrian, "Does he sound like any particular group you have heard of before?"

"That technique, I am sorry to say," replied Suarez, "Is not very unique. He could be anybody, Doctor Aarons. But I would assume that the danger he presents is real and fatal."

"You know what that means, Suarez," Montes told him, gravely, "Looks like we have to eighty-six you, you poor bastard."

" " "

The Estate of Imladris

Vienna, Austria

" " "

"What do you mean?" Haldir asked, searchingly, his deep eyes boring upon the face of his former Queen.

Galadriel pursed his lips in thought. "I have not discussed it with the others. But more and more I am finding that if the medicine of this world can find no way to help him, then we must tear him from it, as we have done for others, before. You see...

"This world," she said, with some sad fondness, "It is a young world, a fairly arrogant one. It wishes movement, it craves constant change. It mistakes the quest for knowledge as the turning away from mystery and wonder, and these two things are most certainly not the same. The land will always have its magic, old friend, nothing can take that away. But there are things we do to ourselves that dull us from its receipt. Such is the case with our Earth now. It is still a place of magic, but hers is no longer a people of wonder.

"Our poor prince," she said, of Legolas, "needs a place where the air is clearer. Where the voices of the trees and the earth and the sea and the sky are louder, simply because people _listen_. He needs a place where time is kinder - slow, and indulgent – where one can repair, where one can simply _be_. He may have lived centuries here, but he is elven-kind, and he can benefit from a place where he can stand still, and receive the generous strength of the giving, magical world. He _needs _to just stand still, and_ receive_."

"Of course," she grimaced, "This is assuming he can make it there alive. His state is fragile, I have heard, and if survival alone is questionable, much more travel. We will need further counsel."

"Medically," agreed Haldir, "And also logistically. No one can get in or out of that place without the rest of the world knowing. Far less he, the cause of the convergence in the first place."

They looked at each other, glumly, and emptily.

"This might best be discussed with the varied, and ultimately creative minds downstairs," Galadriel said with a wistful smile, after a moment of thought.

" " "

Galadriel walked beside Haldir down to the recreation room, which had been turned into some sort of convergence point by all the guests in the house. It was not at all dwarfed by the fairly sizable group of people there – Elladan and Ana shared an ornate seat for two, his arm encircling her as if he could not have her close enough. Gandalf was manning a table built-in with the base of an old game, Celeborn and Celebrian seated around it with him. The competition was stalled by the players' attentions being arrested by the television screen, which was also being watched by Faramir and Eowyn, who held each other as they stood next to Undomiel. The four ex-hobbits sat or splayed themselves about in careless, odd positions on a compact, antique carpet on the floor. It looked as if the floor could have just fallen beneath them and they could have flown away on a magic carpet ride. Emmett Rigare lorded over his own couch, which was oddly enough, one of the most massive ones in the room. His long legs stretched before him as he scowled at the centerpiece of the room – Elrohir's flatscreen – and his laptop was beside him, humming and lit but for now ignored.

Appropriately, Galadriel and Haldir turned to what everyone else was watching; more of the news except this time, the prominent feature was the capture of Jimmy Goran.

"Suspected terrorist and former Interpol agent Jimmy Goran was arrested early this morning in downtown Los Angeles," said the anchorwoman, "On top of all the charges against Mister Goran, which includes mass-murder and fraud, is the murder of his partner, celebrated Agent Horace Harding, who is now missing in action."

Harding's brows rose in surprise.

"Formerly thought to have been an accomplice in Mister Goran's alleged crimes," she went on, as the station showed footage after footage of Gimli being dragged around, handcuffed, by a horde of uniformed policemen, "Agent Harding is now considered a hapless victim of Goran, and possibly even a tragic hero--"

"They're trying to smoke me out," Harding hissed, angrily, "They know full well he and I were working together. They know full-well..."

"Can we spring him out?" Pippin asked, in a small, knowing voice that spoke of just how much he already understood that the answer would be no.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	18. Situation Normal

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

17: Situation Normal

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

The two men stepped out of the bathroom, having left the Strata researcher tied and gagged as they weighed their options. They were surprised to find Greene with his blue eyes wide awake and focused and settled on them.

"Hey," Montes greeted him, quietly, awkwardly shutting the bathroom door behind him and shuffling over next to his partner's bed, uncertainly. He suddenly remembered that his moment of apology had been drowned out by the emergency, and Greene must be wondering what the hell had changed his mind such that he was here, now.

Greene himself seemed at a loss for words. Montes would not have attributed the silence to his pain, though there must have been some of that, or his drug-induced haze, though there too, must have been some of that, because his gaze was sharp as a dagger, searching, penetrating.

"I have things to attend to," Aarons said, somewhere in the background. It might have been a lie, it might have been his way of letting these old friends speak of things that have gone unsaid for too long. Either way, he stepped out of the room most discreetly, as if he just faded.

"I ah," Montes hesitated, taking a seat, wincing, "I owe you an apology."

Greene shook his head at the man, opened his mouth to speak except he was cut off by Montes raising both his voice, and his hand.

"Don't, all right?" Montes sighed, "Please. This is mine to make, don't even try to take this away from me. I was an asshole. Aarons, you know, he was right. He told me you had good reason to keep your secrets and all this shit around us, it's just proof that you were damn right to try and do so. Everyone wants what you have. I know I did. I'm sorry, so there. Live with it. You mad? You gonna kick me out of here?"

"I've lived with you this long," Greene smiled, after a moment, "I don't have the strength or inclination for a big change right now."

Montes grinned at him, "So we're good? I mean, you're obviously not, but you know, under the circumstances kind of good?"

"I would say so," Greene chuckled, his heart feeling warmed. But his eyes looked troubled. "I have my own apologies to make."

"Yeah?" Montes asked, skeptical, "What in the world would you have to be sorry for?"

"All... this," Greene replied, waving vaguely. The wires on his arms trailed his movement in a ridiculously decorative fashion.

"You can't help being what you are," Montes winced, "The same way people just can't help from wanting and needing what they think you have to give. You know what they say. Situation normal: all fucked up."

"But there are..." Greene murmured, thoughtfully, his gaze taking on a kind of wide, distant look, "There are things that can be done."

"By you?" Montes snorted, "Newsflash, hero. I think you're going to gave to sit this one out."

"Since when?" Greene asked him, arching that arrogant brow of his.

"Since you got bulldozed by a fucking car, Greene, since then," Montes snapped at him, "Was it just me, or have we forgotten one of us is bleeding inside?" Montes shifted uneasily, the both of them recognizing full-well what that meant.

"Relax, buddy," the detective said, much more mildly, "We've got _you_ now."

" " "

"I went down there," Elrohir told his father and Brad Greer / Boromir of Gondor, in their hotel suite as they settled down for tea in the dining room.

"We're dreaming if we think we can get in," he grimaced, over a mouthful of scones, "Glad to see you whole and hale, Boromir, by the way. At least."

"I think I got bumped down the priority list," Brad shrugged, "Since the secret's out anyway. Who's to care about me?"

"I hope you're right," Elrohir sighed.

"_I_ hope I'm right," Brad agreed, "So have you spoken with Aragorn yet?"

"He's probably busy up there," Elrohir shrugged, "I'd rather have him paying attention to the brat prince than to me, of course, though it would be nice if he gave us a ring, once in awhile. Now's as good a time as any to try again."

He fished for his cellphone, pressed some buttons and put it to his ear. To his surprise, it was answered on the first ring.

"I won't waste time being pissed at you for not calling or answering," Elrohir said, quickly, getting right down to business, knowing their time was likely short, "Good news?"

"Are you kidding?" came the sardonic reply.

"You could have just said no," Elrohir sighed, "How's Leggy?"

"Not good, brother," Aragorn replied, tightly, "But that is not unexpected, at this point. He speaks, he is aware most times, but he deteriorates in predictable fashion."

Elrohir put the phone on speaker mode that his father may also hear.

"What of the options you have outlined before?" Elrond asked.

"They have been reviewed and rejected," Aragorn replied, sounding as if he was speaking through grit teeth, "I wish I could find the insanity to attribute it only to the desire of powers for his demise, that they may have his body, but there are legitimate medical reasons I could not deny them."

"It is-" Elrohir whispered, "But then-"

"Are you saying he's dead, Aragorn?" Boromir breathed, feeling stifled in the room of many words and no direct messages, "Is that what this is? Time's up, clock's out, shop's closed--"

"I don't know," Aragorn snapped, "I don't know."

Boromir looked stricken. The words sounded so alien in Elessar's voice. If he hadn't said them twice, he would have doubted his ears.

"I'm counting on time," Aragorn rambled, "I'm counting on him. He's always had nine lives, he's always been able to find a way, you know, even when we were younger. He always managed to get up again, somehow. He's always managed to get up again. Somehow--"

He sounded lost, distracted.

"And there are other things that demand attention," Aragorn said, cutting himself off, sounding more focused and determined, more like his old self, "Things I cannot speak of; the walls have ears. Everything has ears."

"Are you all right?" Elrohir asked.

Aragorn coughed, "No."

"Aragorn?" Elrohir asked, uncertainly.

Aragorn coughed again, before saying, "I must go."

He hung up.

"You look pale suddenly," Boromir commented, watching Elrohir's face, "And he sounds ill."

"He's not," Elrohir assured him, distractedly. His gaze shifted to that of his father's. Elrond was frowning.

"Did you hear it said?" Elrohir asked his _ada_, "Or am I going crazy?"

"I did," Elrond said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Hear what?" Boromir asked.

Beneath the coughs he used as a shield, the Elvish word he had said twice under his breath could not have been anything else but "Mother."

" " "

Aragorn slid the mobile phone in his pocket, apprehensively. Elrohir certainly sounded as if he had gotten the message. Aid for his mother should not be too long in coming now. Still... he did not think Elrohir could reach her before his deadline ended. He had to give these criminals what they were asking for, and proceed as if he was still going about this all alone.

Legolas' samples and records he had already set aside, an he could pick them up and bring along with him at will. Proof that he had killed the Strata bastard they were keeping hidden upstairs was another matter altogether.

But he had always been a man with a plan.

He went down to the emergency rooms, secured the Polaroid camera that was often used in documenting injuries. After a long moment of consideration, he also went to the records section, looking at the day's past procedures, looking for some _inspiration_. The traditional proof of death was a neatly severed little body part, after all, wasn't it?

He blanched at the thought, but let the sour taste in his mouth run off; he had always been prepared to do what was needed, short of murdering unnecessarily, as he was being asked to do to save his mother.

He saw something workable, grimaced, and then went on his way.

" " "

He returned to Legolas' room about a half-hour later. His arrival did not at all seem notable to its occupants, as Montes and the elf were thoroughly absorbed on the television.

_News_, Aragorn realized, initially thinking that he should not have been surprised, until he heard that the latest developments concerned the arrest of one Jimmy Goran. He did not catch the whole feature, but the gist was bad enough; the ex-con, ex-Interpol, ex-dwarf was now being held in maximum security as an alleged terrorist.

"Gods," Legolas groaned, putting a hand to his head, shielding his face from the two men and the light and, for how anguished he sounded, in an effort to shield himself from the world. The elf pressed at the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, trying to think.

"Legolas," Aragorn said, gently, "This is not your fault--"

"Is it not?" Legolas snapped at him, putting his hand down and staring at him coldly, "I cannot believe you are quite certain of that."

Aragorn looked at him for a long, quiet moment. Grey eyes searched blue, hungrily, as Aragorn began to wonder if the elf knew about the situation. He glanced at Montes discreetly, wondering if the detective had told Legolas anything about the situation.

"He told me nothing," Legolas told him wearily, reading his eyes, "Everything is broken but the damn ears."

"And so..." Aragorn you hesitated, "You know..."

"The vile man inside threatened Gimli and you and Montes in exchange for me," said Legolas, spitefully, "The same way you are being threatened by someone else in exchange for the same thing for the life of your mother and Montes' children. I know. Everything is broken but the damn ears--"

"But it isn't your fault!" Aragorn insisted, opening his hands out at his old friend, helplessly, "It is just the way that people are..."

Legolas closed his eyes, looking quite defeated. It was not an expression either man had ever seen on him before.

"Greene," Montes said, quietly, and looking at Aragorn nervously, "Maybe we should shut this thing off for a moment. Maybe you should take a nap, or something."

Legolas shot him a dirty glare, not at all appreciating the soothing tone of condescension. He took a deep, calming breath.

"Aragorn," he said, trying to sound as if he was in some form of control, "Shut the door behind you and get that foul man out here."

Aragorn did the first thing, as requested, without question. He hesitated profoundly for the second thing. "What are you planning?"

"Please just get him out here," Legolas reiterated, feeling quite impatient and anxious. He was shaking.

"Honestly, Greene," Montes said worriedly, "You need to calm down."

"Get him out here," Greene growled turning the impatient, royal prince before them as his eyes flashed hotly, his demeanor turned frigid, "Or the gods help me I will get up from here and do it myself."

Montes stared at him for a stunned moment, as he began to push himself from the bed, and, against all odds, seemed to be succeeding.

Aragorn stalked toward him and pressed a non-too-gentle, unquestionable, authoritative hand on his shoulder.

"Be still," he hissed at the elf, gray eyes intent and burning also.

Montes stared, as elf and man glared at each other hotly. Greene's breaths were coming in restrained gasps, his chest heaving with his frustrations, but he would not be denied. Aarons channeled some alien, unexpected royalty too, looking and sounding foreign, and unabashedly powerful himself.

Now, Montes knew they have been friends for awhile. But there was something ancient, about the way they stared at each other that reminded one uncannily of the term _Clash of the Titans_. There were things at work here, in their hot eyes and steely cold silence.

"Be still, _mellon-nin_," Aragorn told him again, "You are doing yourself harm. Let us care for you. Let us handle these foul affairs. Think only of recovery--"

"But there will be none," Legolas whispered, his eyes watering suddenly. His look was that of a man being crushed by a revelation. "I know this now, _everyone_ knows. I can only do the things that need doing, that I may... that I may rest, later..."

Aragorn's look softened. "Legolas," he said, not finding word or heart to say anything else. Was he to speak of hope? Was he to ask for miracles? What was there to say?

"I will calm," Legolas said, more stoutly, though his voice still wavered, "When he is before me and my business in concluded. I swear it."

Aragorn pursed his lips, and seemed to melt away back to the more affable face of Adrian Aarons. He gave the elf a curt nod, and did as was asked.

" " "

Montes planted the un-gagged but still heavily-bound Suarez on the seat next to Greene's bed. Like a pair of gargoyled, he and Aarons flanked the man, as if he still presented a danger to their friend.

"They have arrested Jimmy Goran," Legolas told the stranger, lethally calmly. He looked a far cry from the desperate elf who would have fought tooth and nail over lethal injuries just to speak to this man.

"I am not surprised," Suarez said, levelly, "There was a time element. And they must have noted that I was missing, over these last few hours. They have moved on their threat to you, as I told you they would. And it is not the only one we have against you, detective Greene. It is the way we have always done things, until we get what we want."

"I can see that," Legolas murmured.

"The next threat would have been the removal of detective Montes from these premises," said Suarez, "And then the removal of Doctor Aarons from your case. There are others, but these I believe would most hurt you."

"Can..." Legolas hesitated, "Can you arrange for them to leave Jimmy Goran alone?"

"The time for that has come and gone," Suarez told him, "We found him, and turned him over to other powers when you proved to be uncooperative. He has enough on his plate, with his link to the Ebola outbreak. It is now out of our hands. Once that dam has been broken, the water has been spilled. You can only move forward, and save yourself from the rest of the dangers."

Legolas narrowed his eyes in profound irritation. "This is the best you can offer me."

"This is all I can offer," Suarez said.

Legolas closed his eyes in thought, and sighed. "You want to do research on my body. You want this decision of mine documented and unquestionable. In return for my cooperation, you will call off your hounds and keep Detective Montes and Doctor Aarons with me here."

"And you will be certain of not receiving any other threats on those you care for, or on your person, at least from us and all whom we work with," the man guaranteed, "We are one of the biggest, most powerful corporations in the industry and I assure you, when we step back, you will find the pressure much eased."

Legolas opened his eyes, and they looked tired, but resolved. He glanced up at Aragorn with quiet mourning.

"Estel," he said, "I need this man to arrange things for me. But I have heard it said you need him dead in order to save your mother."

"I wasn't going to kill him," Aragorn said, "They asked for proof of death, and I have thought to provide one staged with a camera and a more certain exhibit, courtesy of an amputee in the day's earlier operations."

Montes grimaced, "God..."

"He has no use for it anymore," Aragorn said, practically, "Let it save a life." His look turned wholly ironic, the dark humor appreciated by Legolas to match the dark hour. "Waste not, want not."

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," Legolas agreed, grinning acidly, "A practice not uncommon to the medical industry if you think about it. One of the reasons why this failing corpse," he pointed at himself, "is being bargained for far more important things. Not such a steep price to pay after all."

"It is still too steep," Aragorn told him, softly.

Legolas' eyes watered somewhat, but he brushed at them coolly, raising his wrist as if to mat away at his hair, "All right, you..." he glanced at the stranger's name tag, "Suarez. My friend's creativity and your usefulness to me has saved your life. I will give you what you need. But there are things that I need from you also, in order to make it real, and binding."

"I won't have-" Legolas hesitated, "I won't have much time left, being in full possession of myself. There are things that need handling. My lawyers, the executors of my will, need to be given access here immediately."

"Of course," Suarez said, earnestly.

"And... and the press," Legolas said, his eyes glinting for a moment, hungrily, in a way that all three men noticed in its nakedness, but only the two who had known him the longest could comprehend.

_What are you up to_? was the immediate, echoing thought that Detective Montes and Doctor Aarons shared.

"You said my... donation," Legolas said, "Must be documented and unquestionable. I wish to declare so on live television."

Aragorn's brows rose, but he kept silent, trying to read the growing mania in his friend's enlightened face. Whatever plan he was thinking of, it was giving him renewed life.

Montes, on the other hand, had far less restraint (or less practice; either way, he opened his mouth in protest). "Have you lost your mind, Greene? These guys have been spinning this thing like crazy. Are you up for it?"

"There is this _thing_ out there," Legolas murmured, and Aragorn could sense that he was tiring, "Like the elephant in the room. The secret is out, there is nothing I could do to wrench it back in and make everybody forget it was ever there. But truth is very relative, my friend, it is near to _elastic_. There are repairs that can be made, yet."

He sighed, "But you are right. I cannot field a mob. I wish to speak with one whom I trust. And besides," he smirked at Aragorn, "There's almost a poetic justice in it, that this tale should go back with whom it began."

"What are you talking about?" Montes asked.

"He wants to give an exclusive to an old friend of ours, Anatalia Craxi," Aragorn said, without hesitation.

"I will not spend the last of my days in silence," Legolas said, determinedly.

" " "

The Estate of Imladris

Vienna, Austria

" " "

The television was off, for the next few hours, as the people in the room glumly contemplated their future.

"Let me get this straight, Grandmother" Elladan said, frowning, "You propose to somehow take Legolas from here and then sail with him to Valinor."

"His health," said she, "And the circumstances, permitting."

"And the gods willing," murmured Emmett Rigare, skeptically, "And when the moon shines blue. And when pigs take flight..."

"We are counting on too many impossible things," his sister said, pensively, "One impossible thing at a time, we have done before, maybe, but this... it is a dream."

The words rang only too true and familiar to Arwen. "Let us operate on assumptions of possibility. The rest is not helpful."

Her mother nodded at her approvingly, "On that assumption, what would need to be done first?"

"We have to determine if he can survive the journey," Haldir said.

"Immaterial," Emmett said, "Especially since the reason why we wish to bear him away to your happy-land is that there is nothing that can be done for him here. We know for a certainty that for him to stay means his death. This means that the only chance at life is to attempt to leave. That chance, slim though it may be, must be taken. If he dies on the way... well he dies anyway. But to not-try would be to kill him slower."

"The thing to do," Gandalf said, agreeing, "therefore, is to make ready the things that will help him survive."

"Outfit the ships with modern medical equipment," Elladan said, "Powered by generators and reserves and reserves of them, since of course, we cannot count on Elven power sources to match the ones here. He will need the medical equipment and medicine to survive both the travel, and in Valinor when he arrives."

"How is the ship capacity?" asked Arwen.

"We do not travel in tight quarters," Celeborn said, "There is room, but our ship smiths can best determine how much we can bring, once they see and weigh what needs to be on board."

"Any chance of building something quick for more storage?" Elladan asked.

"You know the time it takes to build these particular sorts of ships," his grandfather told him, mildly, "We were not led to believe it is time that can be survived by the young prince."

"Then some of us should be left to build a ship that will follow," Elladan said.

"I would not recommend so," Haldir said, glancing at Galadriel, hesitating.

"Why not?" Pippin asked him, anxiously.

"If we succeed in taking Legolas away," said Haldir, "They will seek all who are left. We are lucky that his distraction has kept the rest of the elves here safe. But when he is gone, time will move infinitely faster. They will search for him, and in his absence, for all who are like him. The dye is cast, as some would say. If we get him out, all else who are like him must leave also."

"The choice that we must make here goes far beyond Legolas," Galadriel said, softly, "Once we decide to take him away, it is to decide that we all must leave with him."

Elladan's hand spasmed against Ana's. "Is it truly necessary--?"

"Think, Elladan," Haldir told him, "Once we take him, the world will hunt us down. We used to have armies and countries. Now all we have is each other."

"The elves who wish to stay can go into hiding," Frodo said, tentatively, glancing at a stricken-looking Ana and Elladan.

"Tantamount to giving up everything anyway," Galadriel pointed out, "To trade our elven paradise for lifetimes of hiding here does not bode well."

"I..." Elladan said, hesitating, "So you propose to bear Legolas away, and all elves here with him?"

"The elves," said Galadriel, "And all who are at risk by aiding us. Our dear friends are welcome also, if they choose to go."

Elladan glanced at Ana, looking slightly relieved.

"And so the choice is laid before you," Galadriel said.

"The household will follow the wills of its lords," Halvor, their _majordomo_, spoke from his quiet place by one of the doors of the room.

"This is a choice that must be made by individuals, Halvor," Elladan told him, tightly, "You are released from your service in such a moment."

"The household will follow the wills of its lords," Halvor told him again, vehemently.

Elladan stared at him for a long moment, before nodding and accepting the man's ardent devotion.

Ana's grip tightened against his. "We know for a certainty that for Leland to stay means his death," she said, almost inaudibly.

Elladan's eyes shot to hers, in disbelief and hope.

"You will go with me," he said, tentatively.

"Without question," she whispered, hypnotized by his eyes.

Elladan smiled at her gently, before looking up at the other people in the room. He realized with a start that it seemed he was the only one much burdened by the choice. The elves who had just arrived, and the loyal servants who had stayed in Imladris with Elladan and Elrohir of course had no qualms about returning to Valinor. Gandalf too, who was a journeyman by trade. Harding's career was over and he was as hunted as they were at this point. Arwen would wish to return with her family and undoubtedly, after he gets into trouble by helping to kidnap Legolas, Aragorn would be a felon and need to run away with them also. The rest of the people here – Emmett, Eunice, Fred, and the hobbits, should not be in too much trouble after the elves leave, if they chose to stay. The Rigares were too powerful to be directly targeted, and the hobbits too... young and deceptively un-threatening, college kids who incidentally had interesting friends. Besides, the threats and dangers to them would cease once there was no elf to trade for, or coerce into cooperation. More and more, to leave seemed like the right choice. Besides, he did not even have to ask Ana. She had chosen to be with him, wherever that would take her.

_The love of my life will join me in paradise_ did not at all sound like a bad deal to him after all.

"There are things that need to be done," Elladan said, "We must tell Elrohir, A_da_ and Boromir. Aragorn must be consulted, and... and Legolas also."

"And the strange thing is," Sam commented, "That choice you made, hard as it seemed, is actually the easy part."

"How do we get him out?" Pippin asked, "and for that matter, what do we do about Gimli? The Fellowship has always stayed true to each other..."

"There is no chance of breaking him out of maximum security, Peregrin," Haldir told him, edgily, "His only salvation is the truth, and the law."

"I will assure he has the best representation," Emmett promised, already fishing out his cellphone.

It was at that moment that another phone started to ring. The odd-ball group felt at their bags and pockets.

"Mine," Ana said, sounding surprised, "It is Doctor Aarons."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	19. Up Close and Personal

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

18: Up Close and Personal

" " "

The Estate of Imladris

Vienna, Austria

" " "

"Doctor Aarons," said Ana, "I'm sorry but did you mean to dial this number? Or were you hoping to catch Elladan? He is right by me--"

"Ana," said the man on the other end of the line, "How soon can you fly to America?"

"Immediately," she replied, distractedly, glancing at the earnest faces around her, "Adrian, what is this about?"

"Legolas has something he wishes to make public," said Aragorn, "He trusts you to make it happen."

Her brows rose. Her father will be ecstatic. The opportunity tickled at her insatiable ambition, but more than that, it was inflaming her passion for a good story. It was why she was in her field, after all. People were so interesting. It was why she loved antiques; they were beautiful pieces of art, made doubly important touched by a unique story, enlivened by unknown hands. It was why she had fallen in love ever more with the elf clutching her hand to numbness at the moment, he and all the stories lodged in his intense eyes.

"Live TV?" she asked.

"Yes," Aragorn confirmed, "He said it is better, irrevocable, and no one can bugger with the things he says."

"I will need a crew," she said, glancing at Elladan with her eyes alight, "And within them we can bring in Lord--"

"I am not alone," Aragorn said curtly, cutting her off.

"I see," she said softly, realizing that they were being listened to. That was going to be tricky, in terms of discussing kidnapping plans, and her idea of sneaking in Lord Elrond to see if there were other remedies for Legolas that have not yet been explored.

"How are we to get in?" Ana asked.

"A man will be in contact with you," said Aragorn, "He can take you inside. I have been warned to keep your crew skeletal; three people. I'm assuming a man with a camera, a reporter, and one for whatever contingency."

She frowned. "Too few."

"That is the only concession," Aragorn said.

"I will arrange for it," she said, hanging up the phone.

Elladan stared at her expectantly. "Well?"

"There will be no consulting with him in our plans," Ana winced, "I suspect his phone is bugged, at the very least. On a lighter note, they have allowed a crew of three in the hospital; Legolas wishes to make a public statement."

"That is unlike him," Elladan commented, "What could he be up to?"

"He might have seen the news on Jimmy," said Sam, "and will make a plea for him."

"It might help," Frodo said, though he did not look optimistic.

"But a crew of three, to be right there, is in our favor," said Eowyn, "We could get Lord Elrond inside, in the guise of a crew member. He would be able to see to Legolas."

"If Leland really wishes to make a live statement," said Ana, "The other spots must be taken by legitimate crew. A cameraman who can also double as a tech to patch us up to an external signal. And then the reporter, of course, makes for three, along with Lord Elrond."

"And the reporter shall be you," Elladan said.

"I am not a reporter," she told him, wide-eyed, "I write, I research, I produce. I do not appear before the camera."

"Now is not the time to be hesitant, Ana," he told her, sounding both firm and gentle at the same time, "We need someone who can transmit our plans to Aragorn in person, as we have discussed them today, especially since we cannot speak to him about it over the phone. We need someone who can take note of outposts, guards, things like that, so that we can plan a form of rescue. Lord Elrond will not be able to do so completely if he tends the prince, and we cannot count on your cameraman either. Besides, Legolas needs someone he trusts, who will ask questions that will not endanger him further, or the rest of us. He asked for _you_, Ana. Please..."

"I-" she hesitated. She remembered, not too long ago, that she and Elrohir had an odd conversation about her place in this crazy picture.

_I am wondering what in the world I am doing here_, she had said.

_Anyone here is meant to be here_, he replied, smiling knowingly at her.

"I will do it," she said, rising to her feet.

"All right," Elladan said, smiling at her. And then wincing. He remembered he had said something about conveying a plan to Aragorn.

_What plan...?!_

"A plan," he muttered, looking at his companions, "We need a plan."

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

Elrohir parked the sleek, black Mercedes a block away from Mrs. Aaron's painfully neat house, after passing it by twice.

"One car was parked there, one was making the rounds like we were," Boromir murmured in observation.

"I saw her from the window," Elrond added, "Entertaining a gentleman. She looked at ease with him."

"Could we have been mistaken by what Estel said?" Elrohir asked, his forehead creasing.

"I doubt it," Elrond said, "But they did seem quite friendly."

"What about that other car, then?" Boromir asked, "They looked suspicious."

"So do we," Elrohir sighed, opening his door, "Won't hurt to knock and check things out."

"Won't hurt to keep one of us out here as back-up either," Boromir said, "Hide the reserves, you know. Are you packing?"

"You sound like a criminal," Elrohir frowned, "Of course I'm not lethally armed. We flew in here, remember? I do have a paring knife..."

"What, you want to slice him some fruits?" Boromir retorted, as he drew out a compact, lethal-looking gun from his coat pocket. "You know how to use one?"

"Of course!" Elrohir snapped, "What the hell are you doing with one of these?"

"People keep telling me to be careful and things like these surprise them," Boromir scoffed, "Let's put it this way. I'm surrounded by paranoid people who are convinced I'm going to end up dead one of these days. I just want to live. It might come in handy."

"Right," said Elrohir, wryly. "Ho-kay. I'm in first. That looks fairly non-threatening. We won't push the wrong buttons."

"How do we know when to barge in?" Boromir asked.

"That light there," Elrohir pointed to a torch by the door of the house, "That thing lights up, you bring around the car and we're all flying out of here."

" " "

The phone rang, and Aragorn jogged out of the hospital room and into the hall, and picked it up at the first ring.

"Forty minutes, at the home of Mrs. Aarons," the caller said, without preamble, "Greene's samples and records, and that Strata bastard's proof of death. Bring in all material you managed to get from him too – wallet, bag, fucking pen, I don't care. Bring it all."

"If I get out of here," Aragorn said in a low voice, "I might not be let back in. You will not be able to get anything else from me. _Help me_. Can you not arrange for someone to get it from here?"

"Think, Doctor," the man snapped, "If we could put a man in there we would do it ourselves. Get it done."

"I will go."

Aragorn whipped around, to find Rafael Montes standing behind him.

"He needs you here," Montes said softly, "He needs you more than me. Come on, Aarons. You know I'm right."

"Detective Montes will go," Aragorn said after a moment, his eyes glowing with gratitude, giving the detective a curt nod.

"Tell him he shouldn't try anything stupid," said the man, "Tell him to shed all the detective clothes and paraphernalia, and come in green scrubs with nothing, literally _nothing_ else underneath. No watch, no earing, not a thing on him but the damn scrubs. He's lucky I'm not asking him to go naked. You have thirty-eight minutes left."

He hung up, and Aragorn lowered the phone slowly.

"If you go out," said the doctor, "You probably won't be able to go back in."

"I know," Montes said, looking at the door to Greene's room, "He's... he's not gonna be walking out of here, is he?"

Aragorn pursed his lips, and chose not to say a thing.

"I'll never get back in," Montes said, rubbing his face, "And he'll never get back out."

_You have to say goodbye now_, Aragorn thought, aching for him.

"I have to say goodbye now," Montes whispered, echoing the other man's thoughts. He made to go back inside the room, before pausing, almost comically. "You think I really have to? I mean, I can just leave..."

"He will be very mad if you don't," Aragorn said, smiling tightly.

"I'm thinking 'mad' doesn't near cover it," Montes said, smiling back, equally wanly. "God. How long have you known him?"

"My whole life," Aragorn replied, deciding to be honest, "And a lot beyond it. Do you ah, I'd hate to sound like an idiot, but what the hell. Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"I can believe anything now," Montes said, "Elves. For crying out loud."

"I knew him in another life, and only recently reclaimed him in this one," said Aragorn, wincing, "His loss is... unimaginable."

"I guess my few years doesn't sound like much to you," Montes said, glancing at the room, again.

"I've never measured the worth of things by time," Aragorn said, "Too many of us have too little of that."

"Yeah," Montes sighed, "What... what were you planning to say to him? I mean, you know. _Your_ goodbye?"

"I have no idea," replied Aragorn, honestly.

"I gotta think up mine real fast, huh?" Montes asked.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn told him, earnestly, "And I thank you, for doing this."

"Take care of him," Montes said, offering the other man his hand to shake, "As best you can, that is."

Aragorn shook his hand warmly, "Always."

" " "

"They called in for the drop point," Montes told Leland, whose eyes were closed but whom he knew was awake, by the way he had twitched at the sound of his approach.

"I'm ah..." Montes hesitated, but he decided to go straight in for the kill. It was always the kind of man that he was; simple, and straightforward. He did not like secrets, he did not like surprises. He was uncomplicated, and unambitious. The most complex thing about his life, he realized suddenly, was that he did not quite know how he managed to get along with someone like Leland Greene, who was all those things. Secretive, tightly-wound Leland, with all his thoughts and ideals.

_How the hell did we get along_?

"I'm the one dropping the shit off," Montes grimaced, "I figured Aarons needs to be here, and... and you know, if he goes out, he might not be allowed back in. It might as well be me."

One eye opened, and then the other. Greene's skin was white as snow, almost making the crisp sheets he was laying on seem like they were dirty-white in comparison. It made the blue of his eyes shimmer all the brighter, and one had the illusion of being hit by a pair of lasers. Sharp, intense, penetrating lasers. The gaze bore deep, and it hurt.

"You know what that means," Montes rambled, looking away from him, "I might not get back in and, you know, unless you walk out of here, I won't be seeing you... for awhile..."

Montes cleared a throat that suddenly felt too tight, "So ah... I think that's pretty sufficient motivation to get better."

Montes looked back at his friend, whose eyes he found had glistened.

Leland's injuries, the drugs, his realizations of his mortality, were all combining to strip away at him, little by little, tearing away at his intricate masks. They made him more honest, more impatient and belligerent, these last few hours. His face was naked, uncensored, blatantly showing his annoyance, frustrations, and defeat, in a way that he had never let show before. Montes was reminded of an old man, one of those surly types who did whatever they wanted, said whatever they wanted, thinking, _To hell with it all. My time's almost up, I'm not wasting it pretending, or trying to be polite_.

But as surely as he let show his pain, his joys, his hopes and his loves, were just as magnified. Those glittering eyes settled on you and the look... it just overflowed with compassion, as if it was emptying him out. Memories streaked in his eyes, and thoughts, and wishes, that defied words.

"You should," Greene rasped, before clearing his throat also, "You should be nervous."

Montes' face broke into a wary smile. "Yeah?"

"You didn't ask Aragorn what part that amputee lost," Leland told him, "You don't know what you'll be carrying it around."

Montes barked out a surprised laugh, though a tear did escape his eye, "You're insane."

"It's the company I keep," Greene told him, mildly, eyes shining and proud.

Montes straightened out his tie, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, I know, right? Pretty sharp company you keep, buddy."

Legolas laughed too, knowing that Montes was referring to himself. He shook his head at his old friend in amusement and dismay.

"I gotta go, man," Montes said, making an awkward forward motion, before pausing, and then deciding to just go all the way. He gave Greene as tight an embrace as he dared, wires and broken bones considering. Legolas hid a wince in pain, but not his grin after Montes pulled back.

"You remember that motivational thing i told you about," Montes said, impishly, wiping another uncooperative tear from his eye, "Get better, get outta here, come see me... Damn it all..."

"Take care, Rafe."

"You too, Le-goal-as," Montes said, the name sounding foreign in his lips, "I've been wanting to give that name of yours a shot since I first heard them call you that. So that's the real one, huh? I got it right?"

"You did," Legolas chuckled, smiling through his tears, "You got it right."

" " "

"Elrohir!" Mrs. Aarons exclaimed, delightedly, as she opened the door to her new guest. She had no trouble at all telling him apart from his twin, after he had given everyone considerable grief during Aragorn's wedding, where they met.

There was a man standing behind her, with a cautious, small smile on his face and a glint in his eye. He looked disarmingly affable, if not for that little glint of thought and, Elrohir feared, suspicion.

"I was just in the neighborhood," Elrohir grinned at her indulgently, "I thought I'd drop by and visit, but," he looked at the man behind her, "You look like you have company."

"Nonsense," she said, waving away the issue as if it was tangible on the air, "Nice young men always have something to talk about. Come on in, sweetheart."

"Gladly," Elrohir said, flashing the man a smile, "Hi."

"Hi," returned the other, a bit wryly.

The two men regarded each other in thought.

_Does he know I suspect him of danger?_ Elrohir thought, _Does he know I know he knows...?_

_What a dance_, he thought, sardonically. They stared at each other with smug, awkward grins. The old woman led the way to the kitchen, saying something about tea and cakes.

"After you," Elrohir said, opening his hand up toward the direction of the dining room.

"No," the other man insisted, "After you."

"Not on your life," Elrohir said, through smiling, grit teeth.

The other man's brows rose. "Ah, so the foolish doctor thought to bring in some back-up, did he? Hm. Well, well. One wonders how. Even more, one wonders how deeply, and profoundly foolish of him, really..."

"Gentlemen!" Mrs. Aarons called to them, "What on earth are you muttering about over there?"

"Common friends, ma'am," Elrohir replied, arching a brow at the man, "Hello. My name is Elrohir. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm in business with Aarons," said the man, "He'll give me what I want, and I keep her alive. Simple economics, really. Everyone wants something."

"Okay businessman," Elrohir said, "I have a proposal for you. Leave, and live."

"You and what army can back up that threat?" the man retorted, "You think I'm alone? You think there aren't any contingencies? I'm really quite disappointed in Doctor Aarons. And rather... annoyed. It's too bad, really. I was just beginning to like her."

"He doesn't know I'm here," Elrohir said, shrugging, "Something to think about, eh? He probably won't give you what you're asking for if she's already harmed. Not that you'd succeed really, since I'm here. But I don't like taking chances with nice old women who makes good cookies."

"Gentlemen!" Mrs. Aarons called again, "Tea!"

Elrohir and the stranger stared and smirked at each other. They walked toward the dining room slowly, keeping pace with each other, neither of them daring to move and break the still spell.

They sat down on the round table, as far away from each other as they could get, with the woman sitting between them, equidistant. She poured them cups of steaming hot tea. The sweet smell of rosewater filled the room.

"Nice," Elrohir said, smiling at her.

"Drink!" she insisted, after pouring each man a cup.

Looking ironic, Elrohir and the man did as they were told, but never tore their eyes away from each other. The cups were drained in moments, as they drank with distraction. Mrs. Aarons refilled them most earnestly.

Elrohir felt warmed and soothed by the drink, despite the adrenalin he was sure was burning through his veins. Even the other man's sharp gaze lost some of it's venom.

_Either this is really good tea_, he thought, suddenly alarmed by its odd and immediate effects, _Or she is a very intelligent woman_...

She wasn't drinking a thing. Elrohir could have laughed out loud. She refilled their cups again, and he discreetly glanced at the portions she was giving them; she barely put anything in his cup, while she topped out the stranger's.

Elrohir maintained his blasé expression, and pretended to down the cup given to him. By the time their unwelcome guest realized what was happening to him – his eyes widened slightly, before sliding shut – his head dropped to the table on a dead snooze.

Elrohir couldn't help himself. He barked out a surprised laugh.

"I now know for sure who Aragorn takes after!"

" " "

Mrs. Aarons rose from her seat and gave the still-laughing elf a tight embrace, "I am happy to see you, my boy, really and truly. I was very scared. Very scared."

"I do not believe that for a moment," he said, pulling away from her and studying her face, "Did he harm you in any way?"

"Not at all," she told him, as she began to put away the spiked tea, "And that was the most fearful thing of all, this smiling stranger with his lies. What is he doing in my house? What does he want from me and my son? He had the most winning smile, but his gaze turned acid-sharp, whenever he did not think I was watching. It burned deep inside. And then I noticed the car that went round my house over and over, and once when he was on his cellphone, I lifted my telephone and realized it was quite flat and dead. He also did not heed my polite hints for him to go on his way. When he was distracted by you, I took advantage of the moment to grace his drink with my sleeping medicine."

"And I had hoped to be of more use than that," Elrohir said, wryly, "All heroes must not be so foiled as this. It's quite embarrassing. Oh. And did you have to dose me too?"

"I wondered if he would be paranoid about drinking anything that was offered to him alone," she replied, a bit sheepishly, "I have decreased your drink after that first cup, you know."

"I jest," he said, already feeling the effects slip away and die, given his firmer, more resistant elven constitution.

"There's the car!" she exclaimed, pointing at a shadow that moved past her curtain, "Going on around again."

Elrohir glanced at his watch, and marked the time. A few minutes later, another shadow passed, and he glanced at his watch again. He waited a third time, and a fourth, until he came to the fair estimate that they had about three minutes in between the passing cars.

"Not bad," he said, smiling, "There's a lot that can be done in three minutes."

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Do you have any valuables you wish to bring?" he asked.

"What kind of a trip are you talking about?" she asked back.

"You don't plan on staying here and waiting to meet his friends, do you?" he asked her, wryly, "They don't seem like a very nice bunch of kids, eh?"

"In that case," she said boldly, "I am an old woman, and anything of real value I carry already in my heart."

"Convenient," Elrohir grinned, glancing at his watch, as one of their mysterious villains' surveillance cars passed by. He grabbed the old woman's hand, and led her to the door, "Time to go."

" " "

Elrohir stopped dead in his tracks when he tore the front door open, and nearly collided with Rafael Montes.

"The hell--!" the detective exclaimed.

"Questions later," Elrohir declared, grabbing the detective by the arm with his free hand. Montes was carrying a cooler on each arm. "Mrs. Aarons, if you would close that door behind you, please."

She did as she was told, and let herself be led, as Rafael Montes was doing.

"Peredhil, what the hell are you doing?" Montes asked, recognizing one of Leland' friends, as the black Mercedes came into view. He could already see the head of two other people in the car.

"We're getting out of here," Elrohir declared, shuffling the two into the backseat like groceries. "Hi dad, hi Brad," he greeted the stunned occupants of the car, "Look what I got."

"What happened to the plan?" Brad asked, as he gunned the engine.

"I got a better one," Elrohir said, glancing at his watch, "Which will go to shit unless you stop asking questions and get us out of view of this house in the next ninety seconds."

"Not a problem," Brad said, flooring the gas.

" " "

They drove away from the suburbs for a few minutes, before Rafe Montes nodded toward Brad Greer. "Hey, you mind turning down the AC a bit?"

Brad glanced at him from the rearview mirror, "You okay?"

"My outfit's drafty," the detective muttered, cryptically.

"You do look kind of odd today," Elrohir commented, "What's with the scrubs? And what's with the coolers?"

"You don't know the half of it," Montes grimaced, looking hesitantly around him. Elrohir and Brad Greer he recognized as Leland's friends. The old lady he assumed to be Doctor Aarons' mother. The silent, forbidding man on the passenger seat up front he did not know at all.

"That's my dad," Elrohir said, "_Ada_, this is Rafael Montes. A good friend and colleague of Legolas. What are you doing out here, Montes? I thought you were in there with him?"

"Some guy called up Aarons saying his mom was going to get it if he didn't send samples and reports on Greene," Montes replied, "He wasn't allowed to go to the cops or tell anybody else, but I kind of stumbled into it. I thought I'd be the drop man. Leland needs the doc there more than he needs me."

Elrohir's eyes widened at the coolers, "You've got Legolas-bits in there?"

"I wouldn't put it that crudely," Montes said dryly, "You won't believe what's inside the other cooler though."

"What?" Elrohir asked, dreading the answer.

"We ran into another goon trying to get Greene to donate his body to their research," said Montes edgily, "turns out that group and the one threatening Mrs. Aarons are working for different agencies. The man threatening Mrs. Aarons wanted both research samples of Greene, and proof that their rival is dead. Aarons wouldn't lay a hand on the prick, so he uh, borrowed from the morgue or the bio waste basket or something."

"There's a body part in there?!" Brad exclaimed, reigning in his morbid curiosity, keeping himself from asking _Which one_?

"I don't know what it is either," said Montes, shrugging, "I was told that Doctor Aarons can be very creative, and then left it at that. I'm not opening that thing. It's too macabre."

Mrs. Aarons sighed, as if thinking, Y_es, that's my son..._

"What are you doing here?" Montes asked.

"Talked to Aragorn and figured out something was wrong," Elrohir replied, "And then got here only to discover the damsel had already distressed her villains." He fished in his pocket for the cellphone, "Gotta call up Estel and tell him you're fine, by the way."

He brought it out and looked at the screen. Five missed calls. He frowned. Well. He had been pretty busy.

_Elladan_, he noted, looking at the number, followed by a string of others, from Pippin to Frodo and the rest of the gang.

"Trouble?" his father asked.

"Let's hope not," Elrohir answered, returning each of the calls, only to discover that all of them were turned off, or out of reach. "Hm."

"Check voice mail," Boromir pointed out, when Elrohir was already doing so, "I'll lend Mrs. Aarons my phone. Elessar must be losing his mind. For that matter, Detective Montes, you may wish to similarly advise your loved ones to be cautious..."

Elrohir focused on the messages in his voice mail as Boromir handed his phone to Adrian's mother.

_Brother, pick up_, went the first message.

_Elrohir, is everything all right? Pick up, please_, came the second.

_Elrohir, the whole gang's headed to L.A. Call me. There's been some developments._

TO BE CONTINUED...


	20. Memento Mori

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

19: Memento Mori

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

Elf and man sat together in weighty, but unavoidably familiar and persistently comfortable, silence. They had released detective Montes and their former-hostage to their respective duties, and were left with no one else but each other. Even the television was turned off.

The murmur of machinery around them was the only sound that could be heard, like a menacing little hiss. Aragorn sat on a chair next to the bed, poring over the records, looking at the case inside out, hoping to stumble on something he may have missed, some other thing that could be done for his friend.

Beside him, Legolas leaned heavily against the pillows, raised at an odd angle that he insisted on, saying it eased his breathing. Aragorn thought it might have been a lie; the elf had always preferred sitting up to lying down, being awake to being asleep, working to being still. Indeed, Legolas stooped over a miscellany of papers, some things that he wanted to note down and speak with his lawyers about.

It reminded Aragorn of the older days, when they would meet in the White City's expansive libraries and work on their respective tasks together, quiet and focused, save for the occasional consultations and side-commentary. Back then, they were working on building empires; strategies of war, plans for a city... Tonight, Aragorn was simply trying to keep the elf alive, at the same time the elf was making arrangements concerning his death.

_This,_ Aragorn thought with a wince, _Would be the first time you and I were working on completely contrasting things_...

Indeed, the situation was stuffed-silly with other contradictions, the largest one being that the words "Legolas" and "dying" were never ever supposed to go together at all.

_Death_, Aragorn contemplated, _Can be such a definer of life. _

The Romans had it right, way back when they strove to seize the days, expecting to be gone one the morrow. Death ironically made life much more rich and meaningful. The way the rarest gold and jewels were the most expensive; the way the most delicious things were bad for the health. Finiteness made things more beautiful, and more coveted. Life was short, it must be lived full throttle.

Death lent not just passion, but also accountability, humility, responsibility. What you have now will not last, Death would say, and you must live a life worthy of remembrance, of legacy. And at the end of it all, you must be a good man; because upon death, you will have nothing but who you are, and gods for judges, deciding which heaven or hell you will make an eternal home of.

In ancient times, he had heard it said that there was an odd custom of a slave riding behind a triumphant, celebrated general returning home to glory and adulation. The slave's one task was to remind the victor that he was but a man, that he shouldn't forget that he was mortal.

Sitting before Aragorn was a being who had made a wealth of a life, had given it everything of himself. He was also noble and generous beyond reason. And yet he had never been threatened by death, as mortals were. Nothing whispered in his ear reminding him that he was a mortal, that everything could end tomorrow.

_What then, drives you_? Aragorn thought, _What whispers in your ear, such that it can bring about greatness in your hands?_

Aragorn craned his neck as subtly as he could, wanting to glance at the elf's work. It was funny; did he not accuse the elf of being curious and nosy just weeks past, when it was he who was dying instead, and making similar arrangements?

The elf, who seldom missed much, glanced at him knowingly. "You might as well look. I was just about to seek your counsel anyway."

Aragorn took to the offer boldly, as if it was expected, and nothing less than what he deserved. His old friend smiled at him eagerly.

"Do you think it can be done?" Legolas asked.

"Legolas," Aragorn breathed, staring at him in awe, "This is unprecedented. I... I truly cannot say."

"We shall hear from my lawyers also," Legolas said with a determined nod. Aragorn returned the sheet of paper to the elf, and noted the slight tremble to his hands, and how the tips of his fingers darkened, a signal that his extremities were slowly becoming air-starved, as his body began to focus its waning efforts in only the most essential and accessible places. Still, the elf lowered his head in thought and worked.

_I did say generous beyond reason_, Aragorn thought again, _What drives you...? _

Was it practicality? That he made a rich life because it would go on and on and it might as well be a good one? That seemed natural, but it did not seem fair. Was it boredom? Some would say so, surely, but he had seen Legolas in times of coveted peace; no one could have wanted a tranquil life more.

This latest scheme of his... it seemed more right to say he was a being always driven by love. His love of the world, his love of his friends and family. Maybe a woman somewhere there, he had once hinted.

_I'll have to ask about that soon--_

Aragorn's cellphone rang, breaking the silence, breaching his thoughts. He jumped at the sound, ice running through his veins in the mere instances that transpired between the first sounds registered in his ear and as he picked it up. The sound would never be the same for him again, having by now become an arbiter of ill news.

"Hello?" he greeted cautiously, not having checked the screen on who had called him.

"I'm safe, Adrian," came the sweet voice of his mother.

He breathed relief, and looked at Legolas with a smile and a reassuring nod.

" " "

He met with his twin brother and their oddball party at a private airpad outside of the city. The jet was still humming when the tense group filed out, one by one, faces set and grave.

"About time," Elrohir said, giving Elladan a quick embrace and his sister-in-law-to-be, who walked beside his brother, an uncharacteristically chaste peck on the cheek.

"About time?" Elladan asked, "I've been trying to reach _you_."

"I've been busy," Elrohir shrugged, "And then you were on the air and I just decided to make myself useful. I got us cars, and a few joined suites at the hotel." He gave everyone else who came up behind his brother a short wave. He lowered his voice, commenting, "Everyone looks like they're here for a funeral."

Elladan looked at him cautiously. "There are things we need to talk about."

"You have," Elrohir hesitated, watching his brother's stern face carefully, "An unwelcome face. It stirs the most unpleasant memories."

He glanced at his mother behind Elladan, who looked as calm and pensive as ever. She did not seem to be listening in on them. Catching the quiet tones of the brothers, Ana backed away and joined the pace of her perspective mother-in-law, who smiled at her indulgently.

The group, led by the twins, walked across the tarmac toward a convoy of black, chauffeured town cars.

"This is not the best place for this discussion," said Elladan, "Then again we cannot have the pretense of the luxury of time, regarding such matters."

"Go on," Elrohir urged him, impatiently.

"It has come to the general attention of the group that if Legolas cannot be saved here," said Elladan, "He must be brought to a place where he can better borrow from the strength of the connected Earth of our kin, and where time stretches longer and more merciful, where there is still a breath of hope for life."

"Valinor," Elrohir said, matter-of-factly, "If he survives the trip there."

"That _If_, brother," said Elladan, "You make it sound like such a villain, when it is a blessing to us. '_If'_ presents possibility, not the dead end that is a certainty here."

"So that's why the whole ragged bunch is here, is that it?" Elrohir asked with a self-deprecating chuckle, "We, us little bunch of nobodies, are about to kidnap the single most coveted item of public interest since the invention of... of... Beanie Babies?"

"That," Elladan winced, humorlessly, "And the fact that if he goes, the rest of us must go also."

"What do you mean?" Elrohir asked, brows furrowing. He unintentionally raised his voice, and he self-consciously lowered it back down again, "'Dan?"

"We're barely under the radar as it is," Elladan pointed out, "Once the golden calf goes missing, eyes will turn our way, brother, mark my word. And we will be in danger, and a danger to our friends and families before long."

"I was busy because Adrian's mother and Detective Montes' family were being threatened in exchange for information on, and samples of Legolas," Elrohir said dispassionately, after a long moment of thought, "I cannot help but see your point."

"And Gimli had just been arrested on ridiculously trumped-up charges," Elladan added.

Elrohir's brows rose, "Since we're dreaming big, have you somehow devised a plan to free him also?"

"We don't even have a plan for the first," Elladan winced, "Whatever the plan turns out to be though, it must make itself apparent soon. Legolas is fading. And once we have him with us, we must leave immediately, that we may get him to Valinor sooner, and to avoid capture and retaliation for ourselves. All who will be adversely affected by offering aid to us are welcomed by grandmother. There is no doubt Arwen and Aragorn will go, and his mother also as she has no one else here. Haldir as well, whose life has already been severely compromised by his involvement with us. The others can weather the storm; without elves in the land, the danger to them will be gone. The Household will be joining us. They are readying everything for the journey from Imladris. Fair Rivendell... shall be emptied after all these years."

The very idea of its abandonment made Elrohir feel deeply enraged and indignant, angry and defeated. A vision of his home, neglected or worse, overrun, turned inside out in search of her long-gone occupants, felt like a kick to the gut.

_Vandals_, he thought darkly, _Barbarians_...

"But Legolas needs to get out of here," he said, under his breath, more for himself than for Elladan, "And so we all do. Maybe, maybe it's just about time..."

The two elves stopped in front of one of the cars. Everyone kind of just shuffled into each of the vehicles, grouped randomly. Elladan and Elrohir hung back, intensely entrenched in their conversation.

"I don't want to leave," Elrohir whispered to his twin, his broken voice matching the shattered spirit in his eyes. He rubbed his face, wearily. "What the hell are we still doing here, brother? What were we thinking? What made us stay so damn long?"

"I think..." Elladan replied, uneasily, the wind was ruffling his hair in a gentle breeze,as if it was in some form of wistful agreement with him, "We were afraid of the complacency of paradise. To leave was a lot like saying, 'Okay, I can die now.' To stay here... was to always have something _next_. I don't want to be there and know that I will never be wanting, never be hungry, never be ambitious, ever again. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Elrohir agreed, wearily, blinking stunned tears from his eyes, "God."

Elladan gave him a sidelong glance, giving him a moment to breathe, and think. You don't tell a man who's been living in the same place for a hundred years that he has to pack his things and leave _tomorrow_.

"You look... all right," Elrohir said, "About all this."

"Ana is coming with me to paradise," Elladan said, "Any man would not be so bold as to ask for more."

Elrohir stared at his twin for a long moment, feeling inalienably unhappy. _But now is not the time to despair_, he scolded himself.

_Yeah? I'm forced to leave my home and everything that I know and love. My friend is dying and the rest are in grave danger. I am hunted. Now is not the time for despair? So when is?_

"I don't even have a trophy girlfriend to take with me," Elrohir sighed melodramatically, in an effort to reign in his fears and unhappiness in favor of duty, and the humor that has always made such things more bearable, "God."

Elladan smiled at him gently, "At least you'll have me."

Elrohir sneered at him, blinking, "Oh, joy."

"But we may be far ahead of ourselves, either way," Elladan sighed, "This is all assuming we can break Legolas out in the first place, which is a pretty gigantic assumption, to say the least. But there are a few things working in our favor."

"Some good news?" Elrohir asked, dryly, "What a surprise. I think I'll die of a heart attack."

"We can get _Ada_ in to see the prince," Elladan said, "Legolas is making a public announcement tonight, on live television, and Lord Elrond is the rawest member of Anatalia Craxi's skeleton reporting team, who is covering the exclusive."

Elrohir's brows rose, "Oh good. That is good news indeed. Good for Ana too. What does Legolas have to say, though, one wonders. It's quite unlike him. I've never met anyone so adverse to attention and be so hideously conspicuous at the same time."

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Elladan said, "We suspect it has something to do with Gimli. He may be making a plea for him, or something. Either way, it gives us a chance to see what goes on in there, the kind of internal security we have to face, and _Ada _can see about Legolas' health. It can all work out, I think."

" " "

"I need to make a pit-stop," Haldir said to the driver.

"We're almost to the hotel, sir..." the man said.

"I don't want to go to _the little boys' room_, buddy," Haldir said, wryly, "Get on the radio, tell them we'll follow shortly."

The chauffeur looked at him warily, but did as he was told. Boromir, Mark Brandy and Pip Took were in the same car with him, sharing the odd look.

"I don't quite know how I ended up in this car with you," Boromir said, sighing in resignation as he sank in his seat, "The last time I went on a pit stop with you, we went shopping and there was this bag of--"

"Now is not the time," Harding cut him off, nodding discretely at the driver.

Boromir shrugged, and sat back quietly as Haldir gave the chauffeur directions to a storage compound, before raising the division between the front of the car and the back of the limo where they were sitting, to ensure the privacy of their conversation.

"I've never been to LA," Mark commented, looking out his window, "It's pretty. Too bad about the circumstances."

"So what was in the bag the last time?" Pippin asked.

"Not things for little boys, I'll tell you that," Boromir replied dryly, "He had guns and surveillance equipment. He looked like a bloody terrorist, is what. You got one of those in every port, Harding, just like you got girls?"

"It's part of my job," Haldir said, wincing, "My former job, that is."

Pippin looked at him worriedly, "You are leaving with the elves, aren't you, Haldir? Are you... ready?"

"I don't think anyone is," Haldir replied, "I think the one thing we are sure of is Legolas can't stay here and once he goes, everyone has to go, because people here aren't ready for them, and that is all."

"What does that mean, really?" Mark murmured, "'Ready?'"

"An interesting question," Boromir conceded, "I mean, is anything amiss here, really, with any of our expectations? Everything going on now... maybe it's just the right kind of breakthrough, you know, that big explosion that will finally allow everything to be okay, allow everyone to be who they really are. It couldn't have been a secret forever."

"Kind of like out-ing yourself from the closet," Pippin piped in, "You know what I mean? I understand Legolas must leave, of course, if no one can make him better here. But do the rest of the elves have to go? Maybe to weather it this time, wait it out, let the world get used to the idea of you."

"You can hardly compare the situation to, say, improving tolerance for racial minorities or alternative lifestyles," Haldir pointed out, "There is not nearly enough of us here to protect each other long enough to weather any assaults. Not to mention the minorities present differences, not threats or worse, opportunities. Being an elf, in this day and age, is like owning a rare commodity with no means of protecting it. People who covet it will not merely take away our possessions, or our freedom, or any of these things that once were taken from conquered peoples. If you are an elf, here and now, they take you apart piece by piece and run away with it. What, then, is to be 'ready,' you ask? I concede to your point, Boromir. Readiness perhaps is not their immediate willingness to accept us, which cannot be expected of them, or of anybody. Readiness is for us to be able to weather things until the people do accept us. We are not ready, and we are too few.

"Historically," Haldir continued, "Persecuted peoples – be it by race, or religion, or lifestyle – have weathered things because they looked to the open future; there will be more of them to come later, and to be exposed now, to make changes now, would be to improve the world for their children and all else who will follow them. It looks to bust a future wide open. For the elves, this is no longer their world, at least, not for the foreseeable tomorrow. They are not opening the future, they are closing the past."

Pippin frowned, "I guess... I guess I just feel bad about them having to go. It feels wrong, somehow. It feels," he had a hard time looking for the word, "It feels ungrateful."

"You can hardly expect people to be grateful for things they don't know they were given," Mark said, mildly.

"That's why Gimli's in jail," said Pippin, glumly, "And that's why Legolas is being treated like the catch of the day. Maybe that's why he's going on the air, you know? If I were him, now would be the good time to tell people what I've done, and then ask them a favor."

"Not like him," Haldir said, wincing, "But I almost wish it were."

"Then I have no idea what he could be doing this for," Pippin said.

"Here we are," Haldir declared, as the car rolled to a smart stop, exactly according to his directions.

" " "

"You look tired," Arwen said to her sister-in-law-to-be, sitting next to Ana, who was seated on the plush rug with her legs stretched out, a laptop over them.

"I'm just nervous," Ana replied with a quick, unconvincing smile.

"You should know when to draw the line," Arwen told her, forehead creasing in worry, "You weren't in top form, when we left Italy."

"Don't I know it," Ana said, "After all this, that leave everyone is talking about sounds about right."

"And in Valinor too," Arwen said with a gentle smile, "I personally have no recollection to speak of, but anytime someone says heaven..." the smile faded, a little, "I do, however, appreciate the gravity of your having to leave this place, and... the people that you love within it."

"I am only child," Ana said, softly, "A goodbye is unthinkable. And yet to simply leave--" she shook her head, "Elladan holds my future, and he is the father of my children. I will go with him, there is no doubt of that. The question is the execution of the goodbye. When I promised Elladan to leave with him, I was just paralyzed by the fear of not having him beside me. The feeling of it was primal, and, and selfish. I did not think about the things that would come after that – to leave behind the things that I know, my job, my life, my family. To love is to blind."

"I turned away from my family," Arwen shared, "And the very heaven we all now seek. It was not heaven, not without Aragorn in it. That too was primal and selfish, and ultimately un-regrettable."

"I am glad," Ana said, genuinely comforted, "Thank you, for saying so."

"But I'm sure you have so much more on your mind," Arwen said, rising to her feet, "That interview is tonight, isn't it?"

"It was supposed to be tomorrow," said Ana, "But they insisted we move forward--"

Their conversation was cut off by the arrival of Haldir, Boromir, Mark and Pippin. Each of the four men bore nondescript, black gym bags that were loosely filled with unknown things. The commotion in the living room caused by their arrival was drawing all of their friends to the room.

"Spoils?" Elrohir asked, stepping toward them and craning his neck as Haldir dropped to one knee on the carpet and unzipped the bag that he had with him.

"Surveillance," Haldir declared, drawing out a tiny, gold pin with a decorative flower on one end and a wire on the other. He walked toward Anatalia, and placed it on her collar. He had the delicately authoritative hand of a man used to pinning corsages on women's clothing, for some odd reason.

"You got lots of practice doing that?" Elrohir teased him.

"Let's say Goran was not my first partner on the job," said Haldir, "Or the prettiest."

Mention of Gimli turned the topic more somber.

"Any word on how Eomer's lawyers are faring with him?" Haldir asked.

"The charges are flooring," Eowyn said, "But they are the best, and they will be able to do what is needed of them."

"It's only a matter of time," Emmett seconded with a firm nod, "Those charges against him cannot stick upon scrutiny. That is why they struck hard and fast, they know we will win in the long run."

Haldir drew out another toy, as his three companions sat by him and unzipped the rest of the bags, in demented, Christmas-morning fashion.

"This will be a direct feed to that visual," Harding declared, tuning on a transmitter and revealing that the flower pin was a video camera by opening a laptop-like LCD that showed whatever the flower pin was aimed at.

"The signals from this might interfere with the cameras we have on hand for the live broadcast," Ana said, studying the deceptive little piece of jewelry.

"I'll keep it running from the moment you get into that hospital," said Haldir, "and then shut it off once you start airing. This way, we get to see and record the interiors and security procedures discreetly, and at the same time, not disrupt the signals when you do start broadcasting. I will turn it on again afterwards."

"Audio too?" Ana asked.

"That would be courtesy of these," Haldir said, drawing out a small box, and revealing a subtle pair of matching earrings, "One to pick up sounds, the other for you to hear me."

"Will you be wearing earrings to hear her too?" Pippin asked, brows raised and feigning innocence. The ex-Interpol agent just sneered at him.

" " "

Aragorn watched the troop of lawyers and accountants leave Legolas' suite. There was a hushed excitement to them as they walked away, that could not have been due to anything else other than what their spirited client had conveyed. They walked in quick steps, murmuring amongst themselves and shaking their heads in amazement and disbelief. They were talking about improbabilities excitedly.

The elf inside the room had his eyes closed, and his head leaning heavily against his pillows. He looked exhausted, and damn near _emptied_.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Aragorn asked him quietly, knowing that he was awake.

"You've asked them to come sooner, right?" Legolas asked him, opening his glassy blue eyes, "Tonight?"

"Ana will be here within the hour," Aragorn replied, before repeating, "Are you sure you are up for this?"

"I won't have any other time," Legolas replied with a wince. They both knew it was indisputably true. It was one of the reasons why they had agreed on pressing the public announcement sooner.

"Your team looks both dismayed and excited," Aragorn said, "It must be one of their most challenging executions. You have confounded them."

"Will it work, you think?" Legolas asked, his forehead creasing in worry, before he smoothed them out and distractedly wrung his wrists instead, "But what does it matter? It's all I can do anyway."

"When I was speaking with Ana," said Aragorn, "They were planing something. I told her to say nothing more, that the phones were probably monitored. I do not know what she could have been trying to say."

"Then we can only proceed as we know is right," Legolas said, "Until we know more."

Aragorn pursed his lips and nodded, sitting by the bed and watching his old friend's face. He hesitated. "I am not at all... pleased, about how things are looking."

For some reason, Legolas found this genuinely funny. His lips quirked to a smile, but he furrowed his brows and focused his gaze in an effort to seem more serious. "I knew that for awhile."

Aragorn half-smiled, half-winced. "Yes, well. Things have gotten steadily worse, since. I am sure you can tell better than me. I am particularly concerned with your breathing. I wanted that announcement made tonight, as I have some procedures that I think can help you, that must be done right away. Tomorrow."

"I trust you in every way," Legolas told him, simply, and truly.

Aragorn closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, "We have to shift to more invasive life support measures. And... and given your current state..."

"You are saying this is something I might not wake from," Legolas finished for him.

The _adan_ opened his eyes, and looked at the elf with wounded, watered eyes. He set his jaws, shook his head slightly, and still would not say the words.

"I, ah..." Aragorn said, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, "I was going to ask, about the things that you would... would need me to take care of.

"I mean," he continued, looking away from his friend painfully, "I am not quite as organized, or efficient as those suits whom you've got in your payroll, but... I don't know. Maybe they haven't... haven't thought of everything. And I do come cheap. Ha!" he looked back at Legolas with a lonely smile.

The elf was shaking his head at him in amusement, dulled only by the loneliness in his deep eyes.

"Once I find the time to think about all this," said Legolas, "I'll decide that d-dying, like this, is not so bad after all, is it? I have the chance to close my affairs, and say goodbye, properly. Many are not so lucky."

"Luck?" scoffed Aragorn, "Come now. Given a choice, would you have wanted to know when you're going to go?"

"No," Legolas frowned, "But a fair warning with time enough to fix things, it is a blessing. I do have much to fix, after all. I remember you, how you were when you died. You were friends and family and a peaceful, satisfied smile. I envied you."

Aragorn stared at him, and thought about how Legolas was to perish, in contrast. Slowly, in pain, surrounded by cold things in a small room, and a body to be cut up in pieces. The thought enraged him, left him feeling emptied and helpless.

"But that was yesterday," Legolas said, taking a deep breath, willing to seem stronger, and much more brave, "It wasn't such a bad life, was it?"

"Are you kidding?" Aragorn chuckled.

"I didn't think so," Legolas said softly, smiling.

"Get your rest," Aragorn told him, "They will be here soon."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	21. Exclusive

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

20: Exclusive

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

The chauffeur drove Anatlia Craxi, Elrond Peredhil and a camera man / tech she had commandeered from their Craxi U.S. affiliates from their hotel to a high-rise building six blocks from the hospital where Leland Greene was staying. The building was the nearest they could get to by car; the crowds have forced the city to close down the roads surrounding the hospital.

They listened to the radio – another Craxi affiliated station – on their way there, even as the camera tech watched some Craxi news cable channels from three portable screens that he brought with him. Dimly, Ana could hear the promo's and teasers running for her upcoming exclusive with Leland Greene. She watched from her window, passing by people gathered around radios and television sets in stores and bars, tuned into the same channels, no doubt by virtue of the upcoming event.

She was sick to her stomach, caused by nerves and the twins that were determined to menace her even before they were born. The un-trained eye would not have been able to tell, however; she had her father's presence, and his sense of finding a good story. She knew she looked calm and collected, though her father-in-law-to-be clutched her clammy hand warmly, and protectively.

Another car followed them, bearing Elladan and Elrohir who wanted to bring them over, while the others remained in their hotel / makeshift base.

The car pulled to a stop before the rotunda of the building, and cautiously, Ana stepped out, trailed by Elrond and their camera man, an unassuming, multi-tasking, lanky young man named Troy. They were met by a small entourage of people from Strata Research and the hospital administration.

Ana watched behind her, as the car that carried Elladan and Elrohir slowed down slightly, before passing them by completely. She saw her fiancée give her a reassuring smile and wave.

"Come now," Elrond told her softly, "We shall meet them when all this is done."

She gave him a curt nod, turning toward the people who received them. She flashed their mint identification cards, and introduced her team.

"I am writing, producing and reporting," she said, "Troy is our tech and cameraman. Mr. Smith there," she was referring to Elrond in the most common American name she could think of, "Is our image consultant and coach."

"Excuse me?" one of the Strata people asked.

"He advises our interviewees," Ana replied smoothly, "He briefs them on camera directions, a particular look or tone, you know how it is. It is common industry practice."

Elrond's eyes shone in pride and amusement. Ana lied casually and effectively. She has been running around with a bunch of secretive elves in the new millennium after all.

"We need everyone and everything to go through security," they were informed.

"Of course," she said, suffering the scrutiny with practiced ease.

" " "

The sensationalism of the media was making Legolas' first ever public statement hard to miss. The airwaves were saturated with teasers and promos from the Craxi channels, and every other network complained or commented on the exclusive, but nevertheless waited for it with baited breath, ready to report on any insights the exclusive will be breaking to the world.

Elrohir listened to the car radio absently, looking at the evening scenes of LA. Lights and cars and pensive people, going about their businesses. Elladan sat beside him silently.

"She looks terrified," Elladan said.

"She'll do well," Elrohir murmured, "Always has."

They fell into weighty silence again.

"I wonder what he'll say," Elladan said, "I couldn't tell Ana anything particular to prepare for."

"I wonder if we can get him out," Elrohir reflected, "We couldn't get within six blocks of that place, even if we had authorization--" his voice trailed, as the vision of a familiar, homey diner crossed his line of vision.

"Pull over," he told the driver, shifting toward his car door impatiently.

"The others are expecting us at the hotel--" Elladan argued.

"Go ahead and send the car back for me," Elrohir ordered as the car stopped and he opened the door, "I have to attend to this."

"God knows why," Elladan muttered, watching his brother jog away, toward the entrance.

" " "

"There's no way to get in or out of that place by car," Haldir said to the room in general, as they watched feed from the surveillance camera on Ana's brooch. The security scans have just finished, and the entourage of people were now in an elevator.

"They're headed for the helipad," Montes, who had stayed with the group since he ran into them at Mrs. Aarons house, said, "They're flying in by helicopter from that building to the hospital."

"If we want to get in there," said Frodo, "We will need one as well."

"That isn't a problem," Emmett said.

The group watched quietly, as Frodo's prediction proved true. Security helicopters kept the immediate airspace around the hospital was clear, though a few news helicopters hovered nearby.

"I'm picking up verbal exchange of security clearances," Harding said, "Now they're let through."

The craft bearing Ana's team was indeed allowed to land on the hospital roof. Awaiting them was a stern-looking group of five uniformed security officers. More security scanning, ID presenting, and cross-checking with a hand-held computer device.

"Are they serious or what?" Sam murmured in dismay.

Of the five guards, two escorted Ana, Elrond and Troy down the stairwell. The other three remained on guard on the roof. The stairwell landed on the main floor. They really had emptied an entire wing of the hospital to Leland Greene. The halls were dark and long.

"Pause at the landing, Ana," Harding told her softly, "And take a slow look at a ninety degree angle to your left, and then your right. I want a visual on the security on that floor."

She did as instructed, and the video feed featured two guards on each of the elevator shafts at the opposite ends of the hallway. They also sighted video cameras spaced about twenty feet away from each other along the length of the corridor. All the doors along the hall were not lit, and seemed locked and unused.

Ana's team was led to one of the elevators. One of their guard escorts pressed the button to the ninth floor. The light that usually indicated that the destination was chosen and that the elevator was headed that way remained shut.

"I forgot," the man muttered, grabbing a key from his belt chain, and using it to key on the elevator. He pressed the button again, and this time it did light up. It looked as if all the buttons were keyed off, indicating that the floors were not being used either.

The elevator landed with a bell, and they stepped toward the busier ninth floor. There was a nurse station, of course, manned by a skeleton crew of two medical personnel, guarded by a security officer who was looking over their shoulders as they worked. Two code teams stood by with their equipment, also accompanied by a security officer each team. One section of the floor was a makeshift dining hall. Another corner was set up like a conference room. Lastly, one corner was set up like an operations room, with feed from the hospital's security cameras featured on screen.

"Surveillance cameras," Haldir said to Ana, "Better view, if you please."

She turned as directed, and Haldir noted, "The surveillance is only for the helipad, the floor directly beneath it, the elevators, and the ninth floor."

Ana's team was led to a far end of the hall, where the one room bearing that one sick person was. Surprisingly, or perhaps to keep from being too redundant, there was no guard right outside the door. Only a haggard-looking Adrian Aarons and a tense-looking man in a wrinkled suit stood there, waiting for them.

" " "

"Ana," Adrian greeted her with a hug.

"Doctor Aarons," she said, tending to the formal when she was edgy, "This is Troy, our camera man today, and Mr. Smith, our image consultant and coach."

Aragorn, bless him, gave a slight quirk of the lip and the eyebrow, but said and did nothing else upon turning toward the elven lord, and his now-odd standing in life.

"This is Mr. Suarez," Adrian introduced the suit, with grit teeth, "He engineered this whole thing. And I guess we might as well tell Miss Craxi now, Mister Suarez, the slant of this upcoming announcement, that she may direct her questions better."

"Leland Greene will be announcing that he is donating his body to the noble scientific goals of my company, Strata Research," Suarez declared, as he waved off the escorts who brought the news team to them, "He will be saying so, and signing the contract on live television. He has already met with his lawyers beforehand for formal arrangements, though."

Ana's brows rose in surprise, her gaze shooting toward Aragorn in alarm. He placated her with a discreet, restraining motion of his hands.

_Later_, he seemed to say.

"This is the Greene's room?" the wide-eyed Troy asked, "I need to begin setting up and testing the equipment."

"Set up out here first," Ana instructed him, looking at Suarez for an explanation, "We want some establishing shots outside, and a few questions for Doctor Aarons to create a better context for the story. This doesn't go out live."

Suarez hesitated, before giving her a small nod. He was probably thinking he already had the prize, he had the motherload, what did it matter? And if it wasn't going live, they could have it edited or refuse its release anyway.

"Will do," Troy said, immediately setting down his bags and beginning to unload them, right there outside Legolas' door.

"In the meantime," said Ana, "It would be best if we could see Leland. He will have to be briefed by Mr. Smith."

Suarez nodded, leading the way to the room. Ana wondered when, if ever, he would leave them alone, so that she could speak to Adrian openly.

" " "

_Mister Smith_? Aragorn thought inanely, giving his adoptive father a penetrating sidelong glance, that the other bore with mild amusement.

"Would that first name be 'John,' by any chance?" Adrian said, under his breath, "Just like half the people in this country?"

"I don't know," Elrond replied, dryly, as he followed the man inside the room, "Ask the young lady, who apparently knows more about me than I do."

The barbs died in a breath, as Elrond stepped inside the room and had his first look at Legolas, who was asleep with eyes closed when they entered. His brows furrowed, and his lips parted in a long, calming exhale.

It was a sight that no one could possible get used to, Aragorn reflected. He's been in and out of this room for the last few days, seeing the same thing or the same thing getting steadily worse, and it still rattled his nerves. The very first sight of the elven prince like this, as compared to how he looked the last time Elrond must have seen him, was surely a shock strong enough to floor.

His skin had always been as white as fresh snow, having just fallen from the sky. But injured, like this, that white had shed its virgin glow, to be replaced by the pallor of a dark winter death. Cuts and bruises were scattered on his face, neck and arms, which comprised what little of his flesh that could be seen. The rest of him was bandage-clad, blanket-covered, or wire-obscured.

The elven healer looked at the machines that surrounded the still figure with morbid curiosity. Wires and links stretched from here and there, vanishing into various places of the elf-prince's body.

"Legolas," Aragorn said, softly, against the naked, delicately-pointed ear, "Wake now, old friend. It is time."

Lazily, blinking eyes opened, roved about the room in confusion for a moment, before settling down on the familiar face of the elven lord.

"This is Mister Smith," Ana said at once, leaning toward his line of vision and setting him straight, before the disoriented patient could utter anything incriminating, "He is here to give you some directions on the interview we're doing today."

There was a look of complete and absolute confusion on his face, before he calmed in understanding. His eyes glinted when he said, "I see."

She smiled at him gratefully, before turning to Suarez, "Sir, there's some information I need from you on this arrangement," she glanced at Aragorn warily, "Perhaps I can have a few words with you outside?"

"What the hell for?" Suarez snapped.

"I came in here not knowing what to expect," she pointed out, "As Doctor Aarons mentioned earlier, the announcement will be much more enriched by information. We can do this outside, and then allow our consultant to advise Lieutenant Greene at the same time."

"Fine," Suarez said, pointing at Adrian, "You, stay with them."

"As you wish," Aragorn said flatly, watching, as Ana ushered Suarez away.

"Do you think she just makes these things up as she goes along?" Legolas sighed, chuckling softly.

"The tongue is always the last to go, with this one," Elrond admonished him, mock-gravely, though his eyes were clouded in worry.

"As opposed to, say, Estel," Legolas pointed out playfully, "whose good sense always goes first."

Elrond sighed, and wondered where to begin his examination, now that he was finally here and had the liberty to do so.

"The bleeping sound that you hear mirrors the beating of his heart," Aragorn told him, helpfully, "The other figures there show the movement of blood in his body..."

He went on to explain which odd-looking contraption did what; this regulated his pain, this gave him fluid and food, this cleansed his system, this helped his blood move, this gave him air...

Elrond frowned, picking up the elven prince's cold hand. The tips of his fingers looked tainted purple. "You will need improvements on the air. He likes pretending all is well- or as well as they can be under the circumstances- but the breaths are harsh."

"He did not fool me for very long," Aragorn said, "That will hopefully be remedied by a procedure tomorrow, the very reason why we urged to forward this press. The new apparatus to be surgically installed will be more invasive, but the concentrations of air provided will be much higher."

"He runs a light fever too," Elrond said.

"A product of that foil in his first operation," Aragorn said, "We have maintained it to a manageable level, so far. Some of the medicines here have something to do with that also."

"Hm," Elrond said, frowning thoughtfully.

"Do I pass, professor?" Legolas asked him, hoarsely.

"Not by a mile, you crazy fool," Elrond told him softly, endearingly. He sighed, looking at Aragorn earnestly, "You are right. All that can be done for him here is being done, and exceptionally well too. There is but one remedy that merits serious thought."

Legolas' brows rose. "Indeed?"

"We wish to take you away from here, to Valinor--" Elrond said, before the door burst open, and Suarez entered, trailed by a rambling Ana and the cameraman.

"Is this thing going to happen or what?" Suarez asked.

" " "

Waitress Jackie sat across from him in the booth Elrohir moodily commandeered. It was an extremely light night for the diner. It was a light night out in LA in general; the people who were not parading around Leland Greene's hospital, or helping to keep peace and order there, were all at home, awaiting that Craxi exclusive that most people would have given heart, hand and foot to get.

She had a cup of tea, and served him a fresh pot of coffee that he immediately took to with gusto.

"You're a very complicated guy," she told him, warily.

"Yeah, I know," he told her wryly, "Why the hell would a guy come by anywhere wanting to see a beautiful girl or speak with a humorous and intelligent one, right?"

"I know I'm all those things," she said, only half-mocking, "And there wouldn't be anything complex about that, not at all. The thing that I cannot understand is why you are here, when those things do not interest you at all."

"Hm," he frowned, thinking, _Why was he here_?

"And I know for a fact the coffee's not the best," she said, "So it can't be that. And if you were counting on this one being free too, well you're sorely mistaken."

He tried to give her a cheeky grin, and damn near succeeded, except his face crumpled and fell, quite embarrassingly, and unexpectedly, and completely.

"I'm losing my mind," he growled at himself, as he angrily wiped at the tears that escaped his defiant, fiery eyes.

She reached over the table, and griped his fisted hands. She kept him from wiping at his tears, and just spent a good moment, intensely watching him cry. At first he struggled, but she was insistent, and he did not want to hurt her. He then looked left and right, hoping he wasn't being watched. She thought in that odd moment that he looked like a child. His eyes finally settled on her face.

"So I have seen the burnt of it," she told him softly, letting go his hands at last, "The shame is useless, shed it now. And then tell me what is on your mind."

He wiped at his face, irritably. "Ugh."

"So what is this about?" she asked him, pouring him another cup of coffee.

"I'm having separation anxiety," he replied cryptically, and she suspected there was an inside joke there somewhere.

"From whom?" she asked.

"From you," he replied vaguely, "From this rotten cup of coffee, from this diner, from everything here that's... normal..."

She laughed in surprise, "Did you just call me ordinary?"

He smiled at her sheepishly, "A compliment, in my book."

Her lips quirked, but she said nothing more of the topic. "Separation?"

"I have to leave for awhile," he said, "A good, long while."

"I see," she said, "Why?"

"Until all this hoopla dies down," Elrohir replied, "That will take a few hundred years, I reckon."

"Yes," she agreed, thoughtfully, "Where do elves go when they want to hide?"

"We don't use the term 'hide,'" Elrohir told her with a hard-edged smile, "We say strategic withdrawal." She opened her palms to him helplessly, pressing him to answer.

"It's a land across the sea," Elrohir said, distantly, "Where the rest of our kind lives. It could only be got to by special ships built by our shipmasters in their ancient, secret art. All of us suffer its call, and end up there one way or another. It is paradise, it is heaven, and I hate it."

"Well that could be a problem," she commented, wryly, "Why?"

He shrugged, "I like it here, for one. And then I hate the feeling of my hand being forced into things, secondly. Sometimes though, I think I'm the sort who needs to be pushed. My brother thinks we stayed here because we'll be too complacent there, in Paradise. And I'm afraid of that, you know? To live and not have anything to look forward to next. To live and never be found wanting, it's... it's death."

"Everyone should be so lucky," she told him, wistfully, "Can I tell you what I think?"

"Isn't that why I'm here?" he asked.

"You're here because you're trying to pretend that you can delay the choices you have to make," she corrected him, "Bask in the 'normal' and 'ordinary,' talk to a nobody, do everyday things. You didn't come here to talk to me. You came here to be like me. But you are not. Ordinary people very rarely do extraordinary things, or have extraordinary chances, as you have done, as you have before you. Your aspirations to be anything less than that is totally backward."

He snorted at her, indignantly. And yet he found he could think of no way to counter her observations and theories.

"So can I tell you what I think?" she asked.

"By all means," he said, wryly, reaching for his coffee cup.

"You tried so hard to keep away from complacency in paradise," she said, "That you ended up being complacent here instead. Now this will be incredibly trivial next to your problems, but hear it in good faith. I like taking long, hot showers."

He nearly choked on his coffee. "Excuse me?"he coughed.

"I've always felt that hot showers robbed me of all ambition," she said, "I get in, I close my eyes, I stay as long as I possibly could. You feel like time stretches, but then it still whittles down to nothing while you imprison yourself by your pleasures. You think you can stay forever, but you age, and you wrinkle, and you end up skipping on a good part of the rest of the day. A long shower is always nice, but you have to step out and live out the rest of the day, you know? Otherwise it's like being dressed up with nowhere to go. Maybe it's preparation, maybe it's procrastination, but there are some inevitable things and then you just have to go out and do it. Maybe it's time for you to take the next step in your life, and if that's a ship out of here, toward heaven or hell or wherever, then it's the thing to do."

"You think about all these things everytime you have a bath?" he teased her, attempting to make the mood lighter, except his eyes were thoughtful, and enlightened.

"Only on weekdays and I have to go to work," she replied with a melodramatic sigh, "It's so hard, trying to find the heart to leave the shower and go to work."

He smiled at her, genuinely, "I enjoyed this conversation. But I have to leave now."

"So soon?" she asked, glancing at a discreet limo that pulled up to their line of vision, from the glass on the booth.

"I was wrong," he said as he rose, "You aren't very ordinary at all. And I should go, before I decide I like it, and end up finding another excuse to stay here."

" " "

Elrohir arrived at the hotel in time to catch the introduction to Anatalia Craxi's exclusive interview with Leland Greene. This section of the program, he noted, must have been recorded before the live airing of the interview. The introduction basically comprised of Anatalia's voice over a series of stock footage and photographs.

"In the nineteen-eighties," she said, "A recluse of a woman named Francine Davenport died, in England. The Davenports were a family of soldiers and politicians, with a proud ancestry of public servants, traceable all the way to the sixteenth century.

"Intrigued by the possible historical relevance of any items she may have left behind," Ana continued, "Letters, photographs, other forms of documentation, Craxi Publishing purchased the estate at auction."

A clip of the actual day of the auction was shown, featuring a very conservatively dressed Gandalf, in an apparent incarnation as an auctioneer. Pippin looked at the wizrd wryly, and the old man smirked at the hobbit. There was an undeniable primal pleasure about finding oneself in the telly.

Several sketches of uniformed men on a ship or on an untamed land were featured in the news, as the voice-over continued, "1585, Roanoke Island, North Carolina. There was a Davenport on ship duty, who perished in a scuffle with the locals."

"We have seen these before," Elladan murmured, thinking back to that very first day he had brought Anatalia Craxi to Imladris, that very first time he realized she was going to be some lovely trouble.

Another sketch was featured, and the narrator stated that it was aboard the _Endeavor_, dated 1769. A Davenport grandson was sent to explore Tahiti with Captain Cook. The introduction featured another sketch of an exploration to Java in 1820, a photo set in a recruitment office in London in 1916, one of rescue workers during the air raids in 1940...

"The photographs, oddly enough," Ana continued her tale, "Shared not only the similarity of having Davenports featured in service, but one other thing."

The photos were then showed one by one again, and then zooming in, closer and closer for a better look at the faces. And then the camera zoomed out, and featured the photographs side by side.

"Each and every one of these photographs," she said, "Featured a stranger, who always stood by a Davenport, and always ever looked the same."

The photos were then featured one after the other again, this time focused on the face of Legolas Greenleaf.

"As if he did not age," she said, "As if he did not die. Who is this stranger? Who is this man? He has been known as Legolas Greenleaf, as Lane Garrison, as Luke Grey, amongst other names. He has been thought of as an angel, a ghost and the devil. Lately, we have known him as a cop, a hero, a friend, or simply as Lieutenant Detective Leland Greene."

The slideshow cut to a live airing right outside the doors to the injured officer's room, where the immaculate, if pale looking Anatalia Craxi stood rigid, a microphone in her white-knuckled but un-shaking hands.

"Tonight," she said, "In his own words, we're going to find out who he really is, and what that could mean for the rest of us."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	22. Fairy Tales

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

21: Fairy Tales

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

As everyone in the hospital busied themselves watching Anatalia Craxi's introduction to her Leland Greene exclusive, Aragorn and Elrond stood beside her, as she applied her makeup with deft hands. It was the only time the three of them found any un-monitored time together.

"What do you mean you mean to take Legolas from here and toward Valinor?" Aragorn asked in a low tone.

"The best of what is here will still end with him dead, Estel," Elrond told him, "But in Valinor, where time is slower, and the connection to nature and her strength is heightened, he will have a chance."

"He might not make it alive if we move him," Aragorn said, pursing his lips, "Assuming we could in the first place, which I doubt."

"Your wife said we must operate on the assumption of possibility," Ana told him, mildly, "The converse is to be unproductive. I find I agree with her. To let Leland waste away here, without a chance of recovery... and then to be cut up and diced for the advancement of medicine when he fails at last seems unacceptable to me, as I am certain it is to you. We are trying to find ways, I assure you. This pin on my shirt is surveillance, by the way. We are trying to find a way around the security measures here. It is not much, but it is a step forward."

Aragorn gave her a short, hesitant nod, "All right. So this will be done assuming it is possible to break him out, and assuming he can live through it to reach Valinor."

"We need an inventory of any equipment or medicine we should have on board," Ana told him, "List it quickly, and then make sure you hand it to me before we part today. The elven ships will be outfitted to maximize his chance of survival, and provide the best possible care."

"We also need a map of the premises," Elrond added, "If you can provide it. If you also have information on security rotations, those will be helpful also."

"I will do this right away," Aragorn said, glancing at Ana before turning away to do as was bid, "Good luck, Ana."

"You are on in ten, Miss Craxi," her cameraman said to her.

She set her things down calmly, and walked toward her designated spot just outside Leland Greene's door.

"Tonight," she said, "In his own words, we're going to find out who he really is, and what that could mean for the rest of us."

" " "

After her exciting introduction, with its quick movements and flashing shots of the past, the still camera focusing on that staid white room before a pale, used-up looking man on a hospital bed was a striking and resonant contrast.

Gone was the calmly regal face from the sketches and photographs, gone were the lively eyes and the straight-backed stance of carefully restrained energy and life, replaced by this... this... _remnant_ of a man – tired, and lonely, and fading.

"Hello," he said, awkwardly. His accented voice was all but a sigh, really, punctuated by a whistling breath that spoke volumes of his deteriorating health, "I... ah... wish to make some things known." He looked painfully ill-at-ease. Ana remembered that he had shied away from the public eye all this time.

She nodded at him encouragingly, "That is why we are here, detective. I have good reason to believe you have the ear of the world, tonight."

He winced, but nodded. He focused his gaze on her, instead of the cold eye of the camera. "I'm... I'm not certain, how much of my... status, has been made known to you. But I have good reason to believe that I am not for this world for very long anymore."

"You are," she prodded, even though she already knew, "Dying?"

He pursed his lips, and nodded, "I am afraid so. There is bleeding, and some complications from an operation that could not have been helped. I have little time left. There are things that must be made clear. Quite a number of things, actually." He glanced at the camera uncertainly, almost shyly, before turning back to her.

"We have all the time in the world for you," she assured him, guiding him in the few things that she felt he would have wanted to let the world know. "You are known as Leland Greene, here. But what is your real name, can we begin with that?"

"Leland Green _is_ real," he told her with a small, disarming smile. It lent his eyes some fire, "But if you refer to my first name, the one issued me by my parents, that would be Legolas Greenleaf."

"There was a Legolas Greenleaf from the sixteenth century," she told him, "Are you one and the same?"

"Yes," he answered, simply.

"Some people would say that's impossible and insane," she pointed out, playing devil's advocate.

"That is theirs to believe," Legolas replied, shrugging, "The science of what I am is known now, and it cannot lie. It has yielded the discovery that I have the capacity to live a few hundred years. The story behind it, my life, however, is shared only at my prerogative. If people choose to believe, then that is up to them. I must point out that it too, though, that is insane and unfair to force a man to speak and then call him crazy for doing so. This is the tale, as I know it, and whether or not people believe me is up to them. That is out of my hands."

"There are others across history who have shared your face," Ana said.

"I do not doubt that they also must have been me," he said.

"Who were the Davenports?" she asked, "Why were you always with them?"

"A man died asking me to look after his family," he replied, "My duties ended with the death of the last of them. It is almost simple." An ironic smile; he did not find the need to discuss that it had cost him lifetimes and a fair amount of his sanity also.

"Are there others like you, in the world, right at this moment?" she asked him, her eyes intense.

"No," he replied, breezily, just as she knew he would, to protect his friends, "I am the only one."

"How are you certain?" she asked.

"Because I looked and looked and drove myself crazy looking," he replied, and she could have sworn the mourning in his eyes was true and sunk to the bone. He found his friends – elves, human, dwarves and wizards alike- eventually, but it was only after lifetimes of looking, and then surrendering.

"I looked everywhere," he whispered, "There was none. I was alone. I am still alone..."

"Where did you come from?" she asked.

"We called ourselves the Firstborn," he said, "First to walk the Earth, fashioned by the hands of gods. _This_ Earth, if you must know. We lived in this land for ages immemorial. We left _en masse_ when the time was right, and left it to our successors, mortal men, in favor of a land that was promised to us as Paradise. I left there to return here."

"Only fools leave paradise," she told him, wryly.

"So I have been told," he said, almost smiling.

"Why did you leave?" she asked.

"A friend of mine died," he replied, his eyes darkening in another remembered mourning, "It ceased to be so. I felt restless. I returned here looking to see what was left, and found that the world was different. I have had to keep my secret since."

"You mentioned gods," she said, tilting her head at him, "You know our world has many questions regarding religion."

"A subject I will stalwartly refuse to answer," he said, quickly, "Religion, belief, spirituality, is its own truth. Just because I am different, and have seen different things, does not disregard the truth of the experiences of others. If anything, I know less about the workings of those who have made us than the average man. I know not of what is wanted of me, of what is meant for me. I just... try... to live."

She looked at him wistfully, "What is death, to you? You who have been exempt?"

"I am not unaware of it," he said, shifting uneasily, "I have had many friends who passed. Elves do not age, do not fall ill. But we do break, we can get hurt, as may be apparent to you right now. In this way, we can perish, as many have before. I have also had many friends who were not elves, and who have died in my company. Death... _hurts_ very much indeed. I have always wondered what it would be like. I guess you can call it a curiosity though... it might be more fundamental than that, and not as casual."

"A mystery?" she suggested.

"Aye," he nodded, "That is a good word."

"Do you fear it?" she asked.

"Yes," he whispered, before clearing his throat, "But that is normal too, I heard."

"All too much," she said, checking her sympathy and willing to remain as objective as possible, "You called yourself an elf."

"That is how we have been called," he said, "Not to say that Shakespeare's magical creatures, or Santa's helpers are not properly representative. Maybe a variant of that sort exists. I don't know. I find I do not know much about the world after all."

"How long have you been alive, by now?" she asked.

"The counting of time is different," he answered, "I lived centuries in a different time, sailed to a paradise that did not count it, and then returned and lived several centuries in this world's standards. I do not know."

"Have you met any notable figures of history?" she asked.

"I have," he replied, "But that might take more time than we have."

She nodded in understanding. Already, his breath was running short and his face was taking on a darker, unhealthier color. The oxygen mask that Adrian Aarons pressed to his hands for usage anytime he felt he needed it was being ignored. If she guessed correctly, the stubborn elf would not use it until the cameras were off.

"Have you any regrets?" she asked.

He looked distant, for a long, silent moment. "That presents much to think about. I keep thinking that there were a great many things I've done that eventually made me unhappy, but then even now I know I would not have done anything differently. Everything had its place and purpose. I still would have returned here. I still would have given my word to Davenport. I still would have kept it. You know I've read somewhere: I have always been what I chose, though not always what I wanted."

"This decision to 'come out' so to speak," she said, "What is its purpose to you now?"

He smiled at her tightly, appreciating the segue way.

"Over the past few days," he said, "I have been receiving threats against my friends, their families, and my person, from various agencies that I cannot name, in exchange for the right to claim research on this body. I am finding out the hard way, about the things people are willing to do to get what they want. I do not mind that, not really. I understand that what I have can make valuable contributions to the improvement of health in the world. I have no enemies here.

"What I do not appreciate," he said, "Is the inconvenience, and the danger, imposed upon those extremely few whom I call my friends. Particularly, I wish to speak of Jimmy Goran."

"Former Interpol agent arrested for complicity in mass murder and terrorism," she filled in, "Relating to the recent Ebola outbreak here in California, that same incident that you helped stop."

He nodded, as he earnestly began to re-invent the truth of what had happened during the incident in question. He was a_ professional _liar, by god...

_"_Yes," Legolas said, "_That_ Jimmy Goran. He is no villain. If anything, he is a hero. He knew about me, we are good friends. We found ourselves in a terrible, potentially tragic situation that we could remedy. My resistant genes against the Ebola, his skills in computers and extensive networks... we knew we had a cure, and we knew we had to give it to the world. The only reason he planted it in Chandra Bouvier's files is to keep it from getting traced back to me, and inadvertently reveal my secret. He is no villain. He is a hero. He risked his reputation, doing what he did. Even more, he risked his life. In order to test and refine the cure, we needed an Ebola sample. He dosed himself to sneak it out. He made himself ill, in an effort to help cure others. He is a hero, and I beg that he be set free."

Legolas shook his head in dismay, "But when did begging ever do any alleged criminal any good? I can do one better. I propose a deal."

Ana's brows rose in surprise. She knew that Legolas was to make an announcement to give Strata Research his body upon death. She did not know the exact mechanics of it involved setting Jimmy Goran free, somehow. Apparently, the man from Strata Research did not know this either. Somewhere, she heard Suarez make a constrained kind of noise that resembled a squawk. No wonder Legolas told no one of his intentions, and specifically requested a live broadcast that no one can edit or prevent from airing.

"I want him freed and well," Legolas said, his voice turning strong and clear, his eyes going sharp and piercing, "And I want my friends and their families to be left in peace. The people bothering them want my body in exchange. Well... everyone should get what they want, shouldn't they?"

"How?" Ana asked.

"If Jimmy Goran is freed, _tonight_, I am signing a contract that yields my body to Strata Medical Research upon my death," Legolas replied, looking pointedly at Suarez, "However, to assure that they will have no monopoly on reaping the benefits on this research, I have also retained the services of Mcafferty, Worthman and Singh."

Ana remembered the name of the most prestigious auditing and accounting body in the entire country and possibly the world; they audited the largest companies, completed objective investigations into billions of dollars worth of white collar crimes for the government, and in glitzy LA, they also audited game shows and awards shows. Their illustrious clientèle included various governments and agencies, individual presidents, kings and queens, A-list actors and athletes, and other persons of note. She wondered how much Legolas had to have paid to keep them. Then again, the elves have always been good with their money, and had the advantage of time in savings and growth rates.

"They will be in charge of looking over Strata's shoulders," Legolas continued stonily, "To assure that: one, every single part used is accounted for, and I do mean _every_ single part; two, results from every single form of research is published in a widely-distributed, accredited international journal; and three, anyone who requests a sample and states legitimate medical research objectives shall be entertained, either by furnishing them a copy of similar research that has already been done, or to give them samples for their own first-hand research, with the obligation of them having to publish anything they find, and be audited for the use of what was given them. You see...

"I have come to the realization," Legolas said, "That the people I care for are endangered by what other people think I have. If everyone who simply asked can just get what they want, perhaps they can leave us all alone. Now, this ridiculous failing body is too finite, for everyone to share. That's why there's a clamor that can, and has, escalated to danger. But knowledge, learning, information... if shared, can multiply a thousand-fold.

"But that is all assuming that Jimmy Goran is freed," said the elf, "If not, I am officially and irrevocably ordering an immediate cremation, and I make no qualifications to the term _immediate_. Upon expiration, I go straight to the bloody ovens. I have retained the services of --" he named another impenetrable, no-bullshit firm, this time specializing in estate laws that no one in their right minds dared defy - "who are paid to focus on absolutely nothing else but that aspect of my will. If Goran is not freed, the world can just sift research from the damned ashes. This is theoretically no contest; research that benefits the world and a falsely accused hero freed, or a hero in jail and a wealth of scientific knowledge gone to the dogs. There is no choice here, it is almost simple."

Suarez behind Ana was choking and blubbering and possibly having a heart attack. He was of course, not made aware of any of this.

"If they free Goran," Ana said, tilting her heard in interest, "You are basically saying that you are making information on research done on your body to anyone, any government, any agency, any school, any company, who asks?"

"With legitimate medical reason," Legolas replied.

"Which can be easily made up," Ana pointed out, "They can be entertaining terrorists. They can be entertaining wasteful requests..."

"All things which are not in my capacity to weigh and decide," Legolas reasoned, "By hiring the auditors, I have tried to safeguard the work as much as possible but I can do little else. I cannot judge requests, I am in no position for that. No one is. It will be on a first-come-first-serve basis. It is the only objective measure. I cannot imagine deciding which disease to prioritize first, which government, which corporation, which research, which_ people_, should live or die based on what I haveall these causes mean different things to different people in different ways. This is the only way I could think of, in order to even the field. Will it go to a terrorist organization? I don't know that, and I don't have the power to control that. What I do know, is that if a terrorist organization has it, then there is someone else, somewhere else, who has it also, and can fight them. I like the feeling, that with the field evened out like this, it's almost as if I was never a factor in any event that will happen to anybody after I leave. I like the feeling that the exposure of my secret is nullified."

Her brows furrowed. "Is that what you want? Just to breeze through?"

"Not really," he said softly, after a moment of thought, "I don't want to be forgotten. I don't want to just vanish, traceless, from everything. Being forgotten hurts. Being nothing huts. But I would... appreciate... if anything that I ever left here be used only for good things."

He leaned back, and closed his eyes for a long moment. He was just breathing, an everyday thing, really, but there was a profound struggle to it, a nagging difficulty that wrenched at the heart. It was partly the physical struggle, she supposed, but there seemed something fundamentally deeper to it, something that broke inside him. Ana watched him, knowing achingly that he had said his piece, that their time was now up.

"The world is watching you," she said to him, wistfully, "Just about every single eye and ear is pointed your way, each one thinking about the things you've been and seen, and wondering what you could mean to them, what you could do for them. They want to know what you have to do with their future, yes, but underneath it all, I think, in the hidden crevices of the human heart, they just want to know about... a story. All these ideas – elves and fairies and immortal lives, gods and heavens - they all remind us that we are all still children, that we always have been deep inside, listening to a tale that helps us dream. They want to know who you are, what you want, and what you have to say to them. Best of all, they want to see what happens next."

His eyes opened and shined on her face. And then he shifted his gaze from hers, and looked at the camera openly for the first and last time that night.

"I am everything that I have ever claimed," the elf said, "And many others things that I have kept. All that I want now is to be left alone, and for my friends to be in peace. I can say nothing more than that I have a great and profound love of this world and its people in all their forms and cunning. Behave, be well, have fun. Be good to each other. And finally, if all that we want is a story, then this is how this one ends."

" " "

Ana faced the camera and signed off. She closed her eyes the moment her camera tech said they were off the air. It was the first time she allowed herself to shake, since being given this task. She felt Adrian Aarons whiz past her and force the elf back into the oxygen mask he had sturdily ignored throughout the broadcast. They collectively ignored Suarez, who was sputtering and stuttering alternately at them and at a phone call, likely from a very irate boss.

She opened her eyes to find that her father-in-law-to-be was looking at her thoughtfully.

" " "

The live broadcast ended to a collective silence in the room and assuredly, a collective silence encompassing a good part of the modern world who had also listened to the ultimatum presented by Leland Greene.

"He is so fucking crazy," Elrohir muttered, running a hand over his face.

Harding blinked, before turning on the surveillance camera again. "Ana?"

"I read you loud and clear," she replied, quietly, "I have the information from Adrian. What else do you need me to do?"

"Come on back," Harding told her, "We have all that can be gotten. Now we have to put it together, and see what we can make out of it."

"Look," Pippin said, pointing to the television, "They are getting reaction footage."

It was fascinating to see how the crowds outside of Leland Greene's hospital begin to move, as if in a flurry.

"All the lobbyists there are rushing into formulating requests and proposals," Emmett explained, "Some are doing it right on the spot. Strata will have a bloody nightmare on their hands. Wait for a press conference soon. Their crisis team will have a lot of procedures to figure out. Clever of Legolas, to make his problem someone else's."

"You gotta hand it to him," Montes said, "He picked the big guns in those damned lawyers and accountant suits. They're the best allies a besieged guy can have these days, they operate like a bloody army. They surely cost like one. Hiring them must have set him back a couple million. I didn't know he had that kind of money on him at all."

Emmett's phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it, as the group watched both the news and Ana, Elrond and their commandeered cameraman be ushered through the exit.

"I just spoke with a good friend of ours," Emmett returned to the room with a small grin on his face, "He was mad and sputtering and quite difficult to understand, but by the gist of things, I gathered that Jimmy Goran is quite irked over the fact that the blasted elf had somehow saved him again, all while lying injured on his back."

"Gimli is free?" Frodo asked, excitedly.

"I had him fetched by my lawyers and drivers," Emmett said, "He should be with us within the hour."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	23. Bait and Switch

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

22: Bait and Switch

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

"They sent a security detail for my family," Montes said to Elrohir with relief, putting down his phone, "So far, it sure seems like the government is making a real effort of protecting Leland Greene's friends, after that bomb he threw out there about us being threatened."

"A lot of people are going to be pissed as hell when we break Legolas out," Brad said, smiling sickly, "All those research proposals and plans suddenly tossed to the wind when they find themselves a body short."

"You think they'll retaliate?" Montes asked him.

"At who?" Brad asked, "You and your kids? The college hobbits? The untouchable Italian CEO's? Once all the elves leave, all the levers are useless. Besides, the public is suspicious, now. No one who gets left behind is going to be touched."

"You know who else is going to be pissed as hell?" Mark Brandy asked, almost absently, deep in thought.

"Who?" Pippin asked him.

"Legolas," Mark replied.

"Why in bloody hell would he be pissed about being rescued?" Pippin asked.

"He signs that contract and it's like he gave his word," Frodo said cautiously, looking at Mark with narrowed eyes, following his line of thought.

"Gimli has been freed," said Sam, "Detective Montes' family protected. We are all safe and untouched here. As far as Leland is concerned, they've stood by their part of the bargain, and all he has to do on his end is wait and die."

"At least he'll be alive enough to be pissed," Elrohir said, determinedly, "He doesn't have to like it, since we're not giving him a choice. We're busting him out, if we can. If that pisses him off, then we'll cross that bridge when we get there. _If_ we get there." He winced, "I cannot help but feel that we are moving ahead of ourselves here, in assuming we can even succeed at all."

" " "

Anatalia and Elrond returned to the main room of one of their suites, where everyone was gathered, doing a miscellany of things. Mrs. Aarons and Arwen had drafted the hobbits into assisting with distributing food and cup after cup of black coffee. The Peredhil twins, Gandalf, Haldir, Boromir, Faramir, Eowyn, Emmett and Montes were stooped in front of laptops and surveillance screens, over maps and schematics of the hospital. A surly ex-con ex-dwarf was amongst them, grunting and making commentary under his breath. The elves were on their – of all things – cellphones, managing the preparations for their upcoming trip and coordinating with the folks in Imladris.

Elladan's tense face lightened somewhat at the sight of his fiancée, and she sought him out at once, sitting by him and shrinking into his arms.

"You did good," he told her softly, kissing the top of her head. She found the act all at once repulsively condescending and endearingly assuring. She settled for the warm feeling of fondness.

She handed him the papers from Adrian Aarons, and he looked through them without removing his arm from over her shoulder. She basked in his warmth as he worked.

Elladan handed Emmett some of the sheets, likely the equipment inventory. The Italian businessman immediately excused himself and grabbed his ever-handy phone, likely to arrange for the procurement of the necessary items. The wizard trailed after him, eager to interface between the acquisition of the materials courtesy of Emmett Rigare, and the capacity of the elven ships with Celeborn, Celebrian and Galadriel.

Elladan handed the rest of the sheets to Montes, detailing the security arrangements as observed by Adrian Aarons. Montes read through it carefully, added a few notes of his own, and confirmed the information to be as accurate as he himself had observed.

"All right," said Harding, to the room in general, "We'll handle this step by step. The first obstacle is the access to the building."

"We can get a helicopter," Emmett said confidently.

"The next obstacle is passing air security," Harding continued, "They have verbal security code clearances."

"Easy to break into," Goran said, "I can feed their system a code we already know. These guys are like a bunch of machines. If you have the code, they let you through, they don't ask any other questions. They aren't allowed to."

"Upon landing on the hospital helipad," Harding continued, "There will be five security officers requesting identification, to be cross-checked with a hand-held computer device."

"Also doable," said Gimli, "For the same reasons. I can fake the ID, and break into their system and feed it an authorization. What kind of ID though, is trickier. Technologically speaking, we can get in. But we need a good cover story."

"Any chance we can claim we have an authorized transfer for Leland Greene?" Eowyn asked, "I can now see that we can probably get in, but how can we possibly go out bringing him with us? Can we claim to be transfer personnel?"

"Too tight," Gimli said, "I am good at my job, Shieldmaiden, but anything revolving movement like that will be looked at too closely. You can bet every stroke of a key concerning anything on Legolas being moved will be reviewed with the utmost care, involving not merely computer verification – with which we can toggle – but also human verification – which is beyond us."

"How about if," said Brad, "Instead of bringing something out, we get in with a story about bringing something in? Let's say we've got donor organs for Greene or something, stick with the story as long as we could, and then once we have him with us, knock out everyone in our way, guards and all, and then fly on out of there."

"That will raise too many alarms," said Harding, "We don't have the numbers to handle a frontal assault, as that will inevitably turn out to be."

"Can we set off a fire alarm?" Montes asked, "Do we have an idea of the evacuation procedures? If we set an alarm, and they'd have to bring him out, and we'd be prepared and waiting to load him in a medevac and then run away with him. That way we don't have to worry about getting him out, they'll do it for us."

"Our only problem will be how fast we can run," Arwen said, "Once we grab him in front of that many witnesses, we'll be marked, and besides, they will follow us, there is no doubt of that."

"Every solution presents a problem," Montes pointed out, "We just have to pick the one with the least of them and so far, it's my plan."

"Bait and switch," Mark said, suddenly, capturing the attention of the room.

"What?" Pippin asked, looking at Mark in bewilderment.

Mark was looking at Frodo, as if arrested. A memory was surfacing, something distant and all at once familiar. He blinked, trying to gather his thoughts above the steadily quickening pace of his beating heart.

"Decoy," he said, blinking faster, as his breath picked up; he felt as if he was at the very verge of a good idea.

"There were four," he breathed, "There were four, and they managed to nab two, and they thought one of them must have been the right one."

"Merry...?" Pippin hesitated, thinking perhaps that his partner-in-crime had finally reclaimed himself at last.

Merry gulped, and shook his head vigorously, as if saying, _Later_. "Boromir is right. Instead of bringing something out, we bring something in." He looked at Haldir, "_You_ look like Legolas."

Harding's eyes narrowed in thought, intrigued, "Go on."

" " "

They divided themselves into several teams, grouped according to tasks. The aptly named Gold Team comprised of Celeborn, Celebrian, Galadriel, Gandalf and Emmett Rigare, flew back to Vienna to oversee the preparation of the elven ships and the equipment to travel with it. They brought the stunned but spirited Mrs. Aarons with them.

The logistics-focused Blue Team, made up of Eowyn, Arwen and Anatalia, was in charge of securing air transportation within Los Angeles and out of it. By the end of the night, right after the formulation of the plan, they already had a medevac helicopter at their convenience, courtesy of a medical drive from one of the foundations that Eunice Rigare chaired, a private jet from the Craxi fleet, and another one from a Los Angeles-based designer whom Arianne Underhill knew through a friend of a friend of a friend in the industry, waiting for the team at a private airpad just outside the city. They also arranged for the destination.

The Black Team, in charge of what was becoming the New Fellowship's favorite executional necessity – creating a massive blackout to disrupt surveillance- was made up of Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry.

The Green Team – or as Gimli solely insisted they be called the _Greene_ Team – was comprised of Montes, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Boromir, Faramir and Haldir. They were in charge of 'personnel retrieval,' which was a euphemism for rescue or kidnapping, depending on Legolas' mood about the whole idea.

Gimli carefully orchestrated everything that was going on, from his makeshift Ops center aboard the lavish private jet of Arianne Underhill's overly indulgent designer friend. The chair he was seated on was a wild mess of an animal print in pink and black, and he sat on it with a scowl and much spite. Arianne, Anatalia and Eowyn were with him, monitoring one screen or other.

"Comm check," he said, "This is Ops with Blue Team, over."

"Gold team checking in before we fly out, over," Emmett said, "ETA to Vienna is 0600 local time. We look forward to hearing from you shortly thereafter. Gold team out."

"Black team checking in, over," Pippin said, his usual cheerfulness mellowed by nerves, or perhaps, the calmer wisdom of age and realization, "We are looking right at the mark, and holding position until your signal, over."

"Green team over," said Harding, "We hear you loud and clear. Taking the helo on the air now."

Gimli heard the rotors run, and looked at the view from Haldir's surveillance camera. The super agent was piloting the medevac helicopter that bore him and his team toward the hospital.

"Intercept coming as expected," Eowyn murmured, watching as a hovering security helicopter headed toward Harding's aircraft.

As Gimli had instructed Harding to do so before the rescue effort began, the former Interpol agent rattled off the complex series of number and letter codes. He delivered it nonchalantly and coolly, and was immediately allowed access to the restricted airspace.

"And so the first hurdle is past," Arwen said, smiling a bit. She looked nervous but focused; she knew what failure meant, as they all did. Failure meant not just leaving Legolas here to die, a dire consequence on it's own, without the subsequent arrests and persecution that would follow for the rest of them, and perhaps exposure also for the rest of the elves.

"Landing now," Harding murmured into the comm.

"Five guards awaiting us, as expected," Elrohir said.

"Harding, you ready or what?" Gimli pressed.

"Let the man land the damn thing first, Goran," Montes said over the channel, "Can anyone say 'overused?'"

"It's his job," Gimli pointed out, "Or _was_ his job, whatever. He's used to abuse."

" " "

The moment the helicopter landed and the blades started to slow with the dying of the engine, Harding hopped out of his pilot's seat, which was quickly taken over by Elrohir, who immediately pretended to be busy with shutting down the helicopter.

Harding sat down on a stretcher on the floor of the back of the medical aircraft, as the rest of the Green Team hovered over him with a miscellany of tasks. The former agent unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, as Boromir and Faramir placed electrodes and wires connected to first response medical equipment, on his chest. Elladan and Elrond arranged said machines around his head, between his feet, any free space they could find on the stretcher. Rafael Montes, holding onto a plastic container of red paint, splattered the liquid liberally on the various members of the team, giving them the look of bloodied medical personnel.

Harding laid down on the stretcher, and looked up at his friends wryly. "How do I look?"

"Awful and perfect," Elladan smirked at him, placing an oxygen masked over his face.

"Wait," Montes said, lifting the mask and then putting some of the red liquid on Harding's face, at the corners of his mouth. He placed the mask back, and then slapped the fake blood on an entire side of Harding's face, and on his hairline.

"Lights, camera, boys," Elrohir said over his shoulder. At his signal, the team – save for Harding – slipped on EMT caps and vests and hid their faces in fake mustaches or blood and grime or mussed hair. They also slipped on gloves, to avoid leaving any fingerprints. From the glass, they could see the five guards approaching their aircraft.

"Action," Faramir murmured, as he pulled open the door and stepped out.

"What the hell is this?" one of the guards demanded.

On cue, Elrohir – the most bold-faced liar of them all, according to a very wry little vote they had taken before undergoing the mission – stepped in. He was chewing gum, to disguise a slight Euro-accent.

"Yeah, I got the clearances for you, chief," he said, fishing around in his pockets, "Damn but we coded on the air or what. Nobody told you?"

"Would I be fucking asking if somebody did?"

"Just be cool," Elrohir said with a shrug, "Tell you what though, you know I'm gonna piss bricks if they fucked up this code. It's called emergency landing for a reason, right? Damned if they think the world stopped just because of some fairy who's up and owned this hospital..."

Elrohir flashed his identification at the guard, and showed him some papers. The cover story the New Fellowship had conceived basically entailed an emergency landing in the otherwise blocked-off hospital. The story goes, the injured man needed to be treated by facilities unique to this hospital immediately, and therefore was given clearance to land and use the operating room.

"Okay, you're clear," the officer said, after consulting with his hand-held scanner. He nodded at two of his colleagues, "Van, Art, go with them, and wait 'til they're done and then escort them back here."

"He looks in a bad way," one of the two men said, glancing at the close-eyed Harding, body and face obscured by fake blood and mismatched tubes and wires that was more for effect than even pretend-medical necessity. The overall appearance inspired fear and sympathy to the uninitiated, but could not have stood up to the scrutiny of a learned doctor's eye.

Montes and Elrond led the way at the head of the stretcher; they've been to the hospital the most number of times and had the best possible chances of looking like they knew exactly where to go, though they all had reviewed the footage and studied the maps. Brad and Freed Greer, who were the most familiar with the equipment, followed, and all four brought the stretcher toward the hospital. Elladan and Elrohir stayed aboard the helo, getting the interiors ready and spacious in anticipation of their honored rescued guest, for later.

" " "

_"You will need improvements on the air_," Elrond had said the previous evening, _"He likes pretending all is well- or as well as they can be under the circumstances- but the breaths are harsh."_

_"He did not fool me for very long," _Aragorn replied_, "That will hopefully be remedied by a procedure tomorrow..."_

It was because of this remembered statement of Aragorn's that the team was not surprised to find that the floor where the operating theaters were held was unlocked and accessible by the elevator.

The group disembarked, and were led to one of the operating theaters by the two guards. The guards stepped out of the room and closed the door behind the 'doctors,' leaving them to their work, as they stood in wait outside.

The operating theater they had chosen was connected to another one by an anteroom where surgeons often scrubbed in or observed. The conjoined operating theaters were often used independently, but was built in the event of two related cases, like a transplant. One room was used for harvesting organs from one body, and the organ was taken from that room, through the anteroom, into the adjoining operating theater, where a recipient body was waiting for it. The rescue mission planned by the New Fellowship operated in a very similar manner...

"Phase One of the Plan," said Gimli over the comm, "Accomplished."

"What's the ETA on Legolas' scheduled operation?" Montes asked.

"We made excellent time," Gimli replied. He had hacked into the hospital system and knew precisely what time Aragorn had scheduled Legolas' surgery to be, the staff who was assigned to assist him, and precisely which operating theater he had booked – the operating theater right next door.

" " "

_We couldn't have done this any later_, Aragorn reflected, as he and four assisting staff rolled out Legolas' bed, out of his room and toward the elevators. The elf was semi-conscious, making a poor impersonation of breathing, his mouth open and swallowing inadequate gasps that misted at the mask obscuring half his face. His chest rose laboriously, and would fall suddenly, as if sinking, the bones of his ribs showing prominently, pausing at a long slump, until the next rise, that seemed to get harder and harder after each passing breath.

_Hold on, my friend_, he thought, jaws set in determination. The surgery should help, he thought, even for just a little while longer...

He and four assistants, as well as their security guard, stepped inside the elevator. Of all the things that remained operational in the mostly shut-down hospital, they retained the terrible, synthetic, unforgettable music in the elevator. Aragorn suffered it with a sigh, as the music was accompanied by his patient's labored breathing.

" " "

"You sure there's no surveillance camera in our theater?" Montes asked.

"The operating rooms were not in the surveillance views we have reviewed," Gimli replied, "I am, however, expecting surveillance to have been installed in the operating room where Legolas is scheduled for a procedure."

"They're here," Elrond announced in a low voice, his sharp elven hearing privy to the activities next door.

"We have to wait for the operation to finish before we move," Gimli said over the comm, "Whatever procedure Aragorn planned, I'm sure the stupid elf needs it."

"I will hear developments from where we stand," Elrond said with a nod.

"Black team in position?" Gimli asked.

"Black team standing by," Pippin confirmed, "At your signal, boss."

" " "

They found a lot more kinky stores in LA than there were in Italy, that first time the Fellowship had ever conceived of this plan, and stopped by a kink store in Italy to pick up some utility costumes to look the part of electricians.

The four ex-hobbits sat on the backseat of a parked, open, white van marked with the local power supplier's seals, looking like they belonged with the Village People singing "YMCA," sans the American Indian attire.

Frodo scratched at his neck and grimaced in discomfort. _God knows where these rentals have been..._

Pippin was quiet, which meant he must have been nervous. He kept glancing around at the loosely populated street, and he toggled with the odd, wired contraption he had been given by Harding and Goran. It was supposed to alter the movement of electric current, he was told by the former Interpol agents. He was told that not too long ago, when it was Aragorn doing this dirty work to rescue Legolas, he had used _mithril_ on electric wires to cut off the power in the European city. They've apparently acquired a bit more finesse since, although, as he tried running the directions around in his head, he could not help but long for the reckless simplicity of the older plan.

"I'm going up to install the transmitter," Pippin declared.

"Go on up," said Gimli, "But take your time, and be careful. We don't know how long that operation will take, no need for you to risk breaking your neck."

"I'm always careful," Pippin said flippantly.

"I'm spotting," Merry declared, sighing.

"I need someone with more concentration," Pippin pointed out, still slightly irked that his best friend hadn't completely regained his memories yet, even after that breakthrough in Imladris. Mark Brandy had said that he remembered bits and pieces, and he would zone out at times, as if thinking heavily and remembering little by little more. He said that he knew more, but that he didn't really feel very different.

"I'll go," Frodo said with a shrug.

"Be careful," Sam told him gravely.

Frodo gave him a slight smile and a nod, as he and Pippin secured their harnesses, ready to climb up on an electric post to install the current disruptor that was connected to the hospital, a few blocks away.

Little by little, the two friends climbed up the post, slowly but surely.

"Kind of like lighting fire signals in the old days," Pippin said with a grunt and a grimace, "And when I was younger me ma always used to ask where I got this mad thing about heights. If she only knew, eh, Frodo?"

Frodo gave Pippin his usual serious smile. "It's odd, isn't it? How this life connects to the old one. What's the same, what's different, what will happen next."

"_Who's_ the same," Pippin mused, glancing down at Mark Brandy and Sam Granger down below, "_Who's_ different..."

"They have not reclaimed themselves yet," Frodo said, mildly, "It bothers you."

Pippin shrugged, "I guess. Although I'm trying to figure out why. I feel the same way about them really, I treat them the same, because I know they're the same, I know it, in a way that I cannot ever doubt. I'm trying to understand why it's important for them to remember."

"It's just one of those things, I guess," Frodo shrugged, "Like asking a bloke if he ever saw this movie you're dying to talk about and then he just says 'Sorry, no.'"

Pippin's brows rose, understanding the analogy. He nodded. "But if we keep raving about it, they'll see it eventually, right? That's how it works."

"Usually," Frodo smiled, as they reached the top of the pole, near the wires.

"I can live with that," Pippin said. He installed the contraption on the wires, "Here we are."

" " "

"They're done," Elrond announced, his tone edgy, as he moved away from the anteroom.

"Night vision on," Gimli announced, although by the time he said it, Montes, Elrond, Boromir and Faramir were already ready with theirs.

"Black team ready at your signal," Frodo declared.

"Green team ready at your signal," Boromir said, glancing at his masked companions.

"Lights out," Gimli ordered.

"Current disrupted--" Pippin announced over the comm, a breath before the operating theater went from clear, blinding white, to perfect pitch-black.

" " "

"Crap," Aragorn muttered, as the lights dimmed over their heads. The life support machinery, however, kept on humming. They were invented to withstand such instances, going immediately into emergency power that would have been good for a couple of hours, until the power came back on.

The guard who was assigned outside their door stepped inside, "Doctor?" he inquired.

"The machines are holding," Aragorn said, "And the operation was a success. We were just about to return him to his room. Without the elevators, however, we'd have to wait here awhile."

The guard put a hand to his ear, as if listening in on his communicator, "Emergency power will be up and running in two minutes."

"Good," Aragorn nodded.

" " "

"Everything should be out by now," Gimli said with a lowered voice, "Surveillance cameras included. Two minutes before emergency power, he said..."

"Not a problem," Boromir whispered, glancing at his brother with a smirk.

The moment the guard stepped back out of Legolas' operating room, Boromir and Faramir, aided by their night vision glasses, peeked into the darkened room where Legolas was. The first two doctors aides they grabbed from behind, the two who were standing farthest from the center of the room, were easy picking.

The two skilled warrior brothers pressed at very convenient pressure points at the back of the men's necks, and they dragged them into the anteroom next door where they were promptly stripped of their scrubs, masks and hats, which were taken over by Montes and Elrond.

Freshly outfitted, man and elf stepped into Legolas' operating room, and stood in front of Adrian Aarons.

The doctor's eyes shot wide open in recognition of the eyes over the masks and underneath the hats. He glanced pointedly at the two other staff members in the room.

Montes jerked his head in the direction of the anteroom. Aragorn narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Montes jerked his head again, more pointedly.

"I, ah..." Aragorn hazarded, "I need some things from the theater next door."

Montes nodded vigorously at him.

"What do you need, doctor Aarons?" one of the staff asked.

"A flashlight," he said, lamely, "You two go. We have Lieutenant Greene covered."

The two aides glanced at each other, but shrugged and did as they were told. The moment they stepped into the anteroom, Aragorn, Montes and Elrond knew they would be taken care of most efficiently.

"How is he?" Montes whispered, looking down at Legolas' drawn face. If the operation was a success and he still looked like a corpse, he sure did not want to see what an unsuccessful one looked like.

"He's alive," Aragorn said, tightly, "What are we doing here?"

"We're busting him out," Montes replied, glancing up at the door to the anteroom.

"That's impossible," Aragorn stated, flatly, almost hopelessly, except his eyes were struggling with reclaiming a ray of elusive light.

"We've gone this far," Montes pointed out, "But we're running out of time. Surveillance cameras - electricity goes back on in two minutes."

"How do we do this?" Aragorn asked, as he glanced up at the door to the anteroom, where Boromir and Faramir had just entered, now wearing the attires of the last two men they knocked out.

"You'll like this one," Boromir told him with a mad glee in his eye. He and Faramir dragged a stretcher behind them.

Aragorn's brows furrowed as he looked down at a bloodied Haldir, who gave him a very macabre wink that reminded him of campy horror movies.

"Switch," Faramir said with a grim smile, "Phase Two is accomplished."

" " "

Deftly, they moved Legolas' stretcher onto the other operating theater, and then positioned Haldir's in its place. Working double-time, Aragron tried to recreate Legolas' look on his new 'patient,' and obscured as much of his face as possible, magnifying their slight resemblance by hiding their differences underneath redundant and a medically useless mess of a mask and tubes and wires.

The lights came back on, and their guard peered into the room. "Are you ready, doctor?"

"Just about," Adrian replied, glancing at one of his four 'staff members.' He looked Elrond in the eye, "I ran out of hypoderitriseclin," he said, thinking of a complicated sounding thing right off the top of his head, "Could you go in next door and grab me a pack and then follow me upstairs?"

"There's another operation next door, Doctor," the guard said.

"They won't mind," Aragorn shrugged, "It's just in the cabinets. Go."

Elrond nodded at him, and then stepped back into the operating theater where they left Legolas and a whole bunch of unconscious, half-dressed doctor's assistants.

The guard, Aragorn, and his three masked and silent aides began to make for the door when the doctor slapped at his forehead, as if he just remembered something. His eyes settled on Boromir.

"I forgot the -" he mentioned another invented word that he was sure he wouldn't be able to repeat later, "I'm sure they have spare there too. Go with him, and then you two can just follow us up."

Boromir nodded, and did as he was told, vanishing into the other room. Their obtuse guard looked down at 'Legolas' and winced in sympathy.

"He doesn't look any better," he commented.

"Get used to it," Aragorn told him, "Things will only get worse from here."

" " "

As Aragorn, Montes and Faramir went and took Harding- disguised as Legolas- back to the elf's room, Elrond and Boromir took stock of their own situation.

Elrond stood by Legolas' head, placing a warm hand to the pallid face and murmuring some words in their native language. It sounded like a prayer, but Boromir wasn't very sure. He laid out the EMT costumes they had previously ditched in their rush to change into the scrubs of Aragorn's aides, neatly. Silently, he and Elrond changed back into their EMT clothes, and re-dressed two of the unconscious doctors and nurses.

Grabbing whatever props he could find, Boromir grabbed one of the unconscious men and sat him on a stool with a grunt. He turned on one of the computer monitors in the ultra-modern operating room and perched the unconscious man's chin on his palms. He grabbed books and coffee mugs to try and keep the pose upright. If one did not look too closely, as the guards from outside seldom did, it would just seem as if the doctor was looking at something in the computer. He did the same with the second man they re-dressed, this time in front of a microscope.

"Now all we have to do is wait for the others," Boromir said.

" " "

They did not have to wait for very long.

After settling the patient back in his room, Doctor Aarons ordered his two remaining staff members to go back to the operating theaters for a few other things, this time, to take some samples for analysis. He pretended to be excited, as if he had just found something spectacular. He gave the orders right at the center of the hall so that the guards heard them.

In a few minutes, Montes and Faramir returned to the operating room where Legolas, Boromir and Elrond were. They shed the scrubs they had borrowed, re-dressed the two remaining unconscious men and placed them in disguised poses over books or other machines, and then announced to the two guards waiting outside that they were done, the operation was a success, and that they were ready to leave with their patient.

The guards opened the door for them as they pushed along the stretcher. The guards spared the remaining, 'working' doctors left in the room a glance, and then shut the doors behind the exiting group as they made their way to the elevator.

" " "

In Legolas' room, Aragorn closed the lights to get the 'patient' to rest more comfortably. Haldir was wide awake and looking at him.

"Ready to go?" Haldir asked.

"Where are we going?" Aragorn asked back, wryly, impressed by the sheer insanity of the plan that was, so far, working. He winced a little though, upon the realization that it was insanity borne of desperation.

Haldir pointed upward, grinning. Aragorn glanced at the ceiling.

"Goran pulled the schematics of this place and we studied it inside and out," Haldir told him, sitting up and tearing away at the wires and his blanket. Beneath the blanket were two EMT uniforms, night vision glasses, and ropes and lifters used for scaling walls.

"We're making our way to the helicopter on the roof," Harding said, "Going through the interior of the ceiling and the walls."

" " "

"Status report," Gimli said over the comm.

"Black team ready to put back the power, over," said Pippin.

"Harding and Aarons in the ducts," Harding replied, "Ready for intercept point in five minutes."

"Green team waiting for Elevator 2A," answered Boromir in a low voice.

"Waiting on you, Harding," Gimli said, "Get a move on."

"Thank the Valar you are not my boss," Harding muttered under his breath.

" " "

Harding was relentless. Aragorn realized with a wince that it's been a long time since he had done anything so physically harrowing.

They crawled, they climbed, they used ropes and spokes that vaulted them up by floors and meters, until they ended up inside the elevator shaft, with the elevator cab humming beneath them.

"Harding and Aarons, just above Elevator 2A," Harding announced.

"We're inside," Boromir added.

"Put the juice back on, boys," Gimli ordered the hobbits.

" " "

The elevator shuddered to a thud overhead and a stop. The lights shut.

"This is shitty," Boromir exclaimed in the dark, cussing and hissing in an attempt to disguise the admittedly slight noise that Haldir and Aragorn were making right on top of them. He groaned, and stamped his booted feet impatiently. Beside him, his teammates pretended to be equally antsy, shifting from leg to leg and emitting grunting noises and miscellaneous mutters.

"Power must be back on," one of their guards said, "System's switching from emergency power to the regular--"

"So just fucking zip it," his partner snapped at the 'EMTs.'

Right above his head, in the dark, Boromir felt a slight breeze, as a part of the elevator ceiling slipped out of place. He pushed to the side, making some room for the stealthy, silent new arrivals.

The elevator was tighter by the time the lights switched back on, and soon the occupants filed out.

If the guards noticed, or found it odd that the party seemed larger than it was when they went inside the elevator, neither of them said so, perhaps clueless as to how in the world they would phrase such a question, and probably convincing themselves that it was absolutely impossible.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	24. Price to Pay

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

23: Price to Pay

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

They loaded up the helicopter efficiently, Haldir taking over the controls. With their prize in their hands, time felt infinitely tighter. He took to the air as coolly as he possibly could, even waving at the guards in a friendly manner.

"We're on the air and on the way," Harding reported over the comm.

"We're on our way to the airpad too," Pippin said.

"I've asked the pilots to start pre-flight sequence," Arwen added, "Planes will be ready for takeoff by the time you get here."

"Black team out," Pippin said, "See you in ten."

"Green team out," said Haldir. He glanced behind him at the pensive group behind him, but he said nothing else as he concentrated on piloting.

" " "

The ride felt like it was taking forever.

They emerged successful against all odds, and yet none of them could find the heart to cheer, or laugh, or feel truly triumphant.

The pallet carrying the unconscious elf was the morose little centerpiece of the backspace of the aircraft, and the being it bore held slim to no resemblance to the friend that they had known in his strength and victory.

Rafael Montes sat back apart from the center, and found it just slightly more bearable to watch the faces of Leland/Legolas' friends than to watch Leland/Legolas himself- pale and still, hidden somewhere beneath the machines that kept him alive and the people that surrounded him.

The space was small, but somehow, each of the elf's old friends found some form of contact with him. The familiarly spiritual elves – he supposed all races no matter what they are and where they are from looked to greater powers than themselves – placed palms over Leland's heart, head and arms, as if they were trying to physically share their strength and wishes. Adrian Aarons fiddled with this machine or that, consulting with Fred and Brad Greer in low tones. The multi-tasking former-Interpol agent kept looking behind him to check on the progression of things.

Montes watched the play quietly, feeling like an outsider. First of all, all these people were fucking crazy, is the thing. The cost of capture was too damn high and yet plans formed around him in this mad light, like he was slowly being surrounded by fire, and _everyone_ in that room just went for it, including himself. He knew then that Greene's grim and blind determination - often perceivable as recklessness- was not so rare after all; his friends were all like him.

There was love there, in every touch they lent him, in every worried gaze they fought to tear from him, as if he were their spirit-brother. He did not know the story, not fully, but looking at them... it was not at all hard to believe that they've known each other literally for _ages_, which Aarons had inadvertently claimed, when he said that they were reincarnates. Everyone seemed highly affected by the injured elf in their company. They all looked tightly-wrought and hushed - dulled, grayed, diminished, half-people entrenched in a grim situation. The mission, he knew, had given them life and purpose for awhile, _animation,_ but now, they all just looked tired and unhappy.

He looked on with a very human measure of jealousy too, he supposed. He felt like a kid in the playground, fighting for turf and fighting for friends. _He's mine_ sounded too closely gay, he reflected, but _damn it_, Leland is! Where was everybody these last few years? Who was there? Who was with him all this time?

_Me_!

He shook his head at himself in dismay. _Petty_, he thought, sighing. The next question he would have to ask, though, is: _Who will be with him this time_? And the answer, that answer he's long-known but had tried not to think about over the course of their mission to rescue Leland was, _Not me_.

_Not me._

Whatever this paradise they were talking about over the seas, however welcome he was for his part here, however frigging nice it was, he had no plans whatsoever of joining them there. He had a life here, a fairly huge family that depended on him. Greene was in good hands, he was in _excellent_ hands, Montes admitted gruffly.

_Better than mine._

He gulped, at the idea of another goodbye. He knew it was coming, he had even bought Greene an optimistic going-away present before their mission started. Still, knowing did not necessarily make things better.

_As a matter of fact, it often makes things seem worse_.

He looked outside his window. They were nearing the private airpad. He knew that this was as far as he could go.

" " "

Arwen and Gimli were waiting for them at the tarmac.

"Good job," Arwen said, embracing her husband tightly. She felt the ex-dwarf run past her toward the injured elf on the stretcher.

"How is he?" she asked, stepping back from him and watching his face. Aragorn looked as if he hadn't slept in days.

"The sooner we get there, the better," he said, tightly.

Arwen motioned toward the two private jets, "We're ready to go. Your mother is already in Europe. She will be leaving with us to Valinor, of course."

"I thought so," Aragorn said with an approving nod.

"How are you going to keep those bloody pilots quiet about all this?" Haldir asked, as he removed his headset and walked towards them. The rest of the Green team worked on unloading Legolas.

"We're traveling with less than a skeleton crew," she replied, "Just a pilot and a sub for each plane. No stewardesses for you, Haldir."

"I have a feeling people have a gravely optimistic misconception about what I do," the former secret agent said, flatly.

She just smiled at him slightly. "The pilots are already in the cockpit, Eowyn and Ana are making sure of that. They shouldn't be able to see us loading Legolas. They are also used to private flights and carrying confidential matters in the industry, and are contractually bound to secrecy under threat of losing their licenses and the shirts on their backs, if they do see anything, which I doubt."

"Did they recognize you?" Haldir asked.

"This is America," Arwen pointed out, "Your two Italian heiresses and a European model is unrecognizable to them."

"You really have a very professional sense of paranoia," Aragorn sighed.

"We have two small private jets," Arwen said, after pausing to see if anything else bothered Haldir, "The size is ideal to our destination, a private island off the coast of France, which is equipped with a small airpad, exclusive to our use. I suggest you arrange the split of the manpower, Estel. I don't know who Legolas will need with him on the flight."

Aragorn gave it a moment of thought, "Anyone with medical experience with Legolas. That would have to be _ada_, myself, Boromir, Faramir, Elladan and Elrohir." He glanced uncertainly at Montes and Gimli, "And Gimli and Detective Montes too. Everyone else can go where they wish or where they fit."

"Are the hobbits here yet?" Haldir asked.

"In a few minutes," Arwen replied.

"Aragorn," said Haldir, "Since the airpad in our destination is small, fly ahead with your party so you can land first and unload quickly. I'll take the flanking plane with the hobbits. I'll also have to borrow your wives, we can make it an even split."

"I'll convey that to Eowyn and Ana," Arwen said with a determined nod, "Your lead plane is that one," she pointed to the Craxi plane, "It's fresher, and carries a good set of the medical equipment you outlined as necessary." She handed Aragorn a sheet of paper, "Equipment inventory, for your review. If anything is missing, there are things we can still get at the last minute. I'll make sure the pilots are informed of the arrangements." She gave her husband a quick peck on the cheek, before jogging ahead, high heels and all.

Aragorn watched her go with a slight smile on his face, before turning toward his company. "Let's load."

" " "

"What language is he speaking?" Montes murmured against Adrian Aarons' ear, watching Jimmy Goran leaning by the unconscious elf's stretcher, clutching his hand and grumbling some things on his ear.

Aarons smiled at him grimly, which was a cross between an endeared grin and a grimace. "Shamelessly bastardized elvish. They are great friends, and made many journeys together. Gimli managed to pick up one in every few words."

Montes stared at them, and was floored when the elf's eyes began to flutter open. He grabbed Aarons arm.

Adrian was just as stunned as Montes, and made a step forward, before checking himself. The two men watched, as the elf blinked himself awake, gasped and mouthed a soundless moan, struggling meekly at the tube protruding from a hole on his throat. Gimli pressed down at his arms, and spoke more urgently at him.

_Calm, calm_, Adrian heard the ex-dwarf say, _You are with friends, all is well. You are with friends. All is well..._

Adrian took a deep breath he did not know he'd been holding, as Leland settled down, and set his blitzed, fearful blue gaze on Gimli's face, a gaze that abruptly softened.

"Gimli's got it," said Adrian, relieved.

Montes exhaled deeply also, and grimaced. Now would be a good time to say he wasn't coming along...

"You've all got it covered, I think," he said, wincing. He looked away when Adrian's gaze shot to his face, and he kept his gaze on Jimmy Goran and Leland.

"I'm not going," Montes said, shaking his head, "I can't. I think you know that."

Adrian paused in thought for a moment, and nodded.

"This is as far as I can go," Montes continued, "I got my kids, and my ma, and everyone else here. Greene, you know... he has all you crazy people on his corner. Whoever heard of a ragtag pack going up against the world, all to save him? And then succeeding? Whoever heard of that?"

"He's awake," Adrian said, "And we'll be leaving in a few minutes. Now would be a good time to tell him."

Montes stared at the elf and Goran. He thought about it, _he did_, but he shook his head instead. "Nah. I said g'bye already. He'll just be thinking, 'I thought this guy left already?'"

"He won't think that," Adrian said, chuckling, unguarded for the first time in days.

"I feel like," he hesitated, "I'm such a wuss. He's supposed to have lived all these goddamn years, right? And then he's got all these people around him and shit like that. I'm like a fucking blip on the screen. He won't remember me, you know, if he lives a few hundred more years after this. Or maybe he will, I don't know, I'll be like that weird guy who got attached to him and said 'bye twice."

"You're not a blip on the screen," Adrian told him, seriously, "And even if you were, he remembers everything and everybody, which has always been the problem."

Montes shrugged, and still hesitated stepping forward. "You think this Paradise business can really work?"

"None of us would have risked this if we did not believe so," Adrian replied, "Doing this was - _is - _a risk to everybody. We may all still get caught, and he may still die along the way. But to stay, to not-try... that is certain death, for him. And that is unacceptable."

Montes bit his lip, and nodded. "So you're leaving in a few, right? This is as far as I go, I said."

"I know," Adrian replied, offering Montes his hand to shake, "Thank you for all your help, Detective Montes."

"It's just Rafe," he said, taking Adrian's hand and shaking it warmly, "Or just Montes, whatever. And I didn't do anything, you know, not really."

"You did a lot, for him," Adrian said, his grip tightening reassuringly on the other man's hand, "Not just tonight, mind. That is something that escapes none of us here. Least of all him. Don't forget that."

"He's a good guy," Montes said, wincing and rubbing at the back of his neck in chagrin, ill-at-ease and unable to handle the praise and gratitude.

"Listen," Montes said, opening a gym bag that he had with him. Adrian earlier thought that it carried valuables or clothes for the journey ahead. "I got him a few things he might miss from out here."

Adrian's brows rose in surprise, "Yeah?"

"It was the only thing I could think of, really," Montes said, drawing out six bags of ground coffee in Starbucks packages, "I'm ah, fairly certain the one thing missing in Paradise is overpriced, overrated and still somehow unbelievably good coffee."

Adrian grinned, looking at the packages, "He'll like that."

"Tell him--"

"Tell him yourself," Adrian urged.

"Tell him," Montes insisted, glancing at Gimli and Legolas, "Tell him I know he's in good hands, or I wouldn't have stayed behind. Tell him thanks for everything. Tell him I'm sorry about stealing his coffee every morning. Tell him... damn. Tell him there's not a whole lot to say because there's too much to say, you know... you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," Adrian said, his eyes shining, "I promise, I will tell him."

"Good man," Montes said, softly. His gaze was intense, and shaking. He took a deep, calming breath, exhaled and blinked, before muttering, "It's gonna be hell looking for another partner. And the Captain thought I was a total jack-ass that first time. Wait 'til he gets a load of this."

" " "

By the time the plane took to the air, Legolas had already gone back to sleep. Gimli faithfully stood by his side, looking tired but grimly determined. The group settled down for the long flight.

Aragorn looked outside his window as the plane taxied on the runway. The hobbits had arrived, and were standing with his wife, Ana Craxi, Eowyn and Haldir. They all waved at the departing plane enthusiastically.

Standing apart from everyone else, a lonely figure, really, one foot rooted to the tarmac and the other pointed toward the exit, was Rafael Montes. He was too far away for Aragorn to be certain, but he felt as if they were looking each other in the eye.

The detective raised his hand up in a casual, lazy salute. He smirked a little, shook his head at himself, and turned and walked away.

" " "

Ile Rene, the French Coast

The Atlantic Ocean

" " "

They rented a private island off the coast of France. For most people, it was an indulgence- there was a large, resort-like house that came with an optional staff (which they had of course dismissed), equipment for water sports, a business center, and a massive entertainment center. The only things that they truly needed, however, was the small airstrip for the landing of small aircraft like the jets that they used to fly in, and the small dock that they were planning to use to sail _out_...

After settling Legolas down on one of the ground floor bedrooms, Aragorn headed for the fully-equipped, modern kitchen and tore open the refrigerator in search of some Red Bull. He found twelve cans in the trash can instead – a couple must have been from him. Tempted, he glanced at the untouched packs of ground coffee that Montes had left for Legolas, which someone had put on top of the counter.

He turned away from the sight and sighed, settling for the conventional instant coffee instead. He microwaved a cup, took a sip, and headed for the business center where Haldir was hard at work.

"Developments?" he asked.

"Nothing really," Haldir replied, running his hands over his face. None of them had had any decent sleep since... since... well, since they flew into the U.S. endless days ago.

"Everything is proceeding according to plan," Haldir said, "Gold team reached Austria without incident, and had already succeeded in procuring supplies for the ships. They are already well into the Mediterranean, and will soon be headed out the Strait and towards our island. From here, next stop: Valinor."

"ETA?" Aragorn asked.

"Four days," Haldir replied.

"How are things in LA?" Aragorn asked, "They'd have found out he's missing by now."

"They're combing that place," Haldir answered, "Working from the hospital out. They already searched your house and Legolas'. They questioned Rafael Montes but released him; hospital footage showed him getting out of there long before the disappearance, and no footage of him going back inside. It's a crazy mess out there. People think it's the government or The Man, the government thinks it's terrorists, corporations left and right are looking at each other and wondering who screwed who... the fact that our old friend was so coveted is now giving us a very decent smokescreen. Everyone's a suspect. It's of some use after all. Soon, though, they're all going to stop looking at each other and start looking at the facts."

"Facts?"

"Their best clue is the helicopter," Haldir said, "Gimli hacked into the system and made sure that helicopter is logged in on storage somewhere at the time of the alleged kidnapping, to keep Eowyn's name clean. They'll peel through that eventually, though."

Aragorn's brows rose, "And then what?" Haldir seemed mighty flippant about the trouble that would cause for their friends who would be staying here...

"And then we plant other fake information saying that the information was planted by someone else, and that one planted by someone else," Haldir said, smiling grimly, "We can't keep the information from getting out, we might as well give them too much and muddle it all together until fact and fiction are inseparable."

"So you do not believe anyone will be making the connection to the Craxis or the Rigares?" Aragorn asked, "Because they have risked much and have decided to stay here."

Haldir shook his head, "It is highly unlikely. Your other loose thread are the airplanes. There is a considerable human factor involved in it that the computers cannot mess with. These men saw Eowyn, Ana and Arwen, and had a fairly extended encounter with them, even if they saw little else of us. And even if they went unrecognized, that won't be for too long. Once you and Arwen are cited as missing along with the rest of us, you can count on photos being plastered everywhere and those pilots will see them, eventually."

"What can we do about that?" Aragorn asked, brows furrowed.

"Again, misdirection," said Haldir with a shrug, "We can't toggle with men's minds, but we can play with the proof that they have in their hands. The pilots may have seen them, but Gimli will doctor the logs to reflect a different date altogether, and is also working on faking photographs of the ladies vacationing here and then leaving. Eyewitness testimony uncorroborated by any other proof is generally unreliable.

"Things seem in control," Haldir shrugged, "However, I do have some bad news. I have read that shortly after Gold team packed up and left Imladris, people were already filing requests to search her, since Leland Greene was known to have spent some time with friends and alleged family there. I predict they will succeed in opening those doors in the next few days. It was most wise indeed to have planned to meet here, instead of in Vienna. Besides, we are in a better position to face the open ocean, here."

"The twins will detest the invasion of their home," Aragorn winced.

Haldir looked sympathetic, but could do nothing more but shrug, "We've all paid a price to stand where we are." He smiled a little, "On a lighter note, I suspect they had Halvor clear out the most important things."

"Really?" Aragorn was skeptical, "I never imagined living thousands of years somewhere and then being asked what I would bring if I had to leave on the morrow."

"The answer was fairly typical," Haldir smirked, "I heard Elrohir discussing with Halvor over the phone. It was quite the long and precise list, but items of note would be flash disks and external drives containing photos taken over the years – Elrohir has been very faithful about keeping them updated, two laptops – one for his use as long as that and reserve power lasts, the other for dismantling in the hopes that the technology can be replicated, and video games and movies."

"What did you bring with you?" Aragorn asked.

"I couldn't think of anything important enough," Haldir replied, wistfully, "I guess that's worse than having to leave a lot behind, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Aragorn hesitated, "But it will most assuredly be different, in this next life, won't it?"

"I believe so," Haldir smiled.

" " "

Anytime that Legolas woke up, there was someone there with him.

He would catch them off-guard, looking bone-weary and worried, and then their gazes would fall on him and those tired faces would break into the most warming, beatific smiles.

That first time, it had been Gimli. And then Aragorn or Lord Elrond on and off, with Faramir and Boromir flanking them. The hobbits tended to go in pairs, at first in the usual combination (that is, of Pippin and Merry and then of Frodo and Sam), until someone thought it best to keep the peace by splitting up Pippin and Merry. He caught Elladan and Anatalia, and Eowyn, Elrohir and Haldir at other times, and then all the permutations in between.

At first, he was convinced it was all a dream, having his friends with him. And like a fool, he rode it and lived it and reveled in it. Maybe he died, he thought for a brief and terrifyingly calm moment.

_Aragorn did say that I might not wake up_...

And yet things felt real, even though his body felt detached in the times it was not too painful.

_If this were a dream_, he thought_, I'd be feeling a whole lot better. As a matter of fact, I can probably get up from this bed--_

And so he realized that perhaps it was not a dream after all.

That fact having been determined, the next question was what in all of Arda was everyone doing here?

_Where is here_? He suddenly wondered, finding that the walls weren't sick-looking.

_What_?

_Never mind_.

He couldn't speak. This was explained to him every time he woke too, which was fairly annoying, especially since he couldn't tell them right off the bat that _Please, keep it to yourself. I know. The other guy told me_.

When Aragorn told him he would be breathing a bit better, he had been right. He just didn't say anything about the macabre _hole_ on his throat! And so his mouth moved, airless and soundless, just when he had all the questions.

He came upon Elrohir that... night, he guessed, because the elf was yawning indulgently over the portable DVD player he was watching, leg crossed at the knee on a chair next to Legolas' bed. He had earphones on, but must have felt the other elf's change in breathing pattern. He looked up and opened his mouth to – probably – tell Legolas to calm down and that he couldn't talk because there was this tube--

The ailing prince shot him a warning, narrowed gaze and shook his head at the Imladris elf, as if saying, _Don't even try it_.

The action wrangled a startled laugh from the Imladris royal, who put his handy little toy at a night table. "I have something for you," he said, excitedly, as he tore off his earphones. When he stood up to get whatever surprise he had in store for Legolas, Legolas glanced at the screen and smirked at the sight of a scene from _The Matrix_.

Elrohir returned with a big grin, a white board and a marker. "I found this in the storage off the rec room. They automated the scoring for the billiard hall and the darts and shelved these, so I guess they had to shelf the old-school stuff."

_Billiard hall? Darts? What in the world is he talking about?_

_Maybe this _is_ still a dream..._

"Since we aren't going to be hearing that pretty little alto of yours anytime soon," said Elrohir, "I thought, might as well." He placed the pen between Legolas' slack fingers, and tightened his hands against them. "You got a grip?"

The elf nodded slightly and blinked in acquiescence, a beat before he promptly dropped the pen and it clattered to the floor. His brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and irritation.

"Don't sweat it," Elrohir told him coolly, picking it up and re-positioning it on Legolas' hand, "We all know your handwriting sucks anyway."

It took them two more tries, before Legolas got a fair grip on the pen. Elrohir held the board for him to write on.

'_Where_?' Legolas asked, and frowned over the scraggly, unfamiliar writing.

"Geez, Leggy," Elrohir teased, "I thought I was kidding with that handwriting thing! And to think when we were younger, our tutors always said that there's this Prince from Mirkwood who had this really good stroke--" Legolas glared at him impatiently, and he sighed. "Okay. Where are we, right? That's what you want to know."

Legolas nodded.

"We're on a private island off the coast of France," Elrohir replied, "Pretty posh, this place. Like you'd notice anything really but... anyway, we sprang you out, no harm done to anybody. They even set Gimli free, just as you knew they would when you 'came out,' so to speak. Don't ask me how we succeeded in kidnapping you though, even I'm surprised, ha! From here, we're headed to Valinor. We thought maybe that set-up will be healthier for you."

'_Valinor?_' Legolas wrote, a bit more gracefully, as if he was stung by the criticism or just getting the hang of it, '_We_?'

Elrohir shrugged, "Well the family's going; me and 'Dan and Arwen and mother and father and grandmother and grandfather. That means Ana's tagging along too, and that brat Estel. Gandalf of course. And Haldir, whom I heard the old Lothlorien elves would have kidnapped on over whether he wanted to go or not. If the ship was sinking, they'd have tossed me out and kept him, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the Imladris household will be joining too. We thought, you know," a streak of sadness crossed his eyes, immediately shielded, "Maybe it's about time."

'_Lie_,' Legolas wrote, after looking at him, searching.

Elrohir stared back, "We have been here too long now. Whether or not I wanted to go does not overshadow that fact."

'_No_,' Legolas insisted, and his brows furrowed and his soundless mouth opened in protest.

"No can do, buddy," Elrohir said, smiling tiredly, "This is our road."

Blue eyes turned left, and then right, as if seeking higher authority with whom to plead his case.

"The buck stops here, _mellon-nin_," Erohir told him, gently, "Everyone will be telling you the same thing."

'_Not saying all_,' Legolas pointed out, wincing at the broken English that was now made necessary by the medium of his communication and his anxiety to get his thoughts across faster. Elrohir just snickered at his dismayed expression. Legolas shook his head in annoyance and stubbornness, '_Tell all_.'

Elrohir looked at him in a long, measuring way, weighing his options. Legolas tapped impatiently at the board, as if he was 'saying' it again.

"There are a few things you need to understand," Elrohir said, hesitating, "I'm not debating this with you, and I'm not giving you any choice. At the end of this conversation, the only thing I'm expecting from you is for you to like this, or pretend to."

Legolas' eyes widened in alarm, almost comically. Elrohir raised up his hand to calm him down.

"But I am telling you this," Elrohir said, his voice and tone gaining ever more strength, "Because if people are acting around you in a way that will have a tremendous impact on the rest of your life, you have a right to know everything about it, and I have a duty to inform you."

Legolas nodded, vigorously, _Go on go on go on_, his hungry eyes urged.

"If you stay here, you will die," Elrohir said, matter-of-factly, "Everything that can be done is being done, but it will not be enough. The only hope we can think to, is to bring you to a place where the mechanical and the technological comes second only to the barest strength – some would say magic – that lies in the lands of our destined home. This means that you have to go, no two ways about it.

"Now you going," Elrohir said, "Means that you need, at the very least, a ship crew, right? So that's not at all a problem, we've got the guys who ah, rowed mom and dad over, to bring you. You going also means that one, Adrian Aarons, as chief suspect in your kidnapping must go too, or else be hunted down here. He is also the best chance you have of staying alive for the journey and beyond it, what with his knowledge of medicine and modern life support. Two: him going means his mom is going too, because she has nobody else, and him going means Arwen's also on the boat. Now with Arwen aboard, the freshly-arrived Lothlorien elves have no qualms at all about sailing back to Valinor with their reincarnated daughter, and will definitely be dragging along their twin wayward sons, if only just to have a complete family portrait for the first time in several hundred years. Now with the Rivendell louts gone, the household will be following. Ana Craxi will be traveling with us to stay by her finance's side. Haldir will be coming because he's severely compromised his life here and is going to be a big hit over there, and then Gandalf will be coming because old men always did whatever they wanted to do, even if one was not a wizard. Gimli's coming because no one can shake him out. So there you go. Class trip. It all works out."

'_Because of me_.'

"Hell yeah because of you," Elrohir said, trying to make light of the situation, except the other elf proved stalwartly uncooperative, "I wish I could say it was because of me."

'_You don't want,'_ Legolas pointed out.

"Immaterial," Elrohir said, flippantly – which was of course, a lie.

'_TELL ALL_.'

"Ooooh," Elrohir mocked, "Now I'm scared."

Legolas just stared at him earnestly, '_Duty_,' he wrote, tossing back in Elrohir's face what he had said, about his duty to talk about the things that would have an impact in Legolas' life.

Elrohir sighed. And looked away. His shoulders stooped with the breath he exhaled, and he suddenly looked deflated, "If you stay, you die. So we have to take you away, and there is no gray to that, just plain and simple black and white. If we take you away, we compromise our life here – Aragorn, Haldir, Gimli, all hunted for their crimes. And then the rest of us elves will be hunted for our bodies. Our families and friends, the people all around us will be threatened, and hurt, just so people can get what they want from us. If you go, all the elves go. And you have to go, so that is that."

Legolas closed his eyes in despair, before opening them again in glacial determination.

'_No._'

"Too bad," Elrohir snapped.

Legolas closed his eyes again, gathering strength and thought, '_I take too much. Bsides, my word-'_

"There are some promises you're allowed to break," Elrohir told him, "I know that sounds terrible, and terribly convenient, but I'll tell you what, someone threatens the people you love, you're allowed to say anything you want to to get 'em out. And then you do what you can to save yourself. Life should always be chosen over death. _Life_. _Live_.

"You've lived so long you've forgotten how," Elrohir said, emphatically, "And how precious it can be. _Your_ life, this time, _mellon-nin_. _Your_ life. There has to be a balance, between giving and receiving-- you have to be willing to share what you have, and at the same time, have the humility to trust that others can fend for themselves, and eventually help even one such as you. You've given more than your share. You need to take care of yourself, this time. You have a chance to live, here, and I implore you to take it.

"I _beg_," Elrohir amended, "I _beg_ you to take it. I promise if you shed the pride you'll lose the shame. Just _take_, Legolas. It's all because of you, all this is for you, _so what_? Let your friends do for you what you would not hesitate to do for them. It is our duty, but more than that, it is our pleasure.

His eyes lightened a little, "So-to-speak, that is, although if there is one thing about this situation that is pleasurable, it is the fact that we managed to shut you up for a little while, somehow."

Legolas looked at him, thoughtfully.

He hated the scrutiny, and the silence. He fidgeted in his seat, like a child.

"What?" Elrohir asked, uneasily, "I'm sorry, all right? That bit about the shutting up thing was a joke, sort of. Just, um, say something!"

'_Thank you_,' Legolas wrote, looking impish, '_Happy?_'

Elrohir grinned at him, "Not if you don't mean it."

'_I do_,' the other said, truly and seriously, returning the smile.

" " "

Elladan stood by the door of the bedroom he shared with his wife-to-be. It was a sight that he still hasn't gotten used to, this beautiful woman asleep on his bed, the shadows of the night following the contours of her sculpted face, her long lashes kissing her cheeks at a curve, before curling upwards. Her red hair splayed about her in waves, rich as the sea... It sent a kick to his heart, that feeling of childish joy at the fact that _This is mine_.

He sat next to her head. He did not expect her to wake up. She's been a heavy sleeper lately, tired out of her mind what with the children she was carrying and the burden placed upon her by their imminent departure. She's been in teleconferences with her "people" all day long, handling matters of her estate. It was the easy part, she had told him. That call to her parents, that she was putting up for last.

He played with her hair, thoughtfully. She was lying on her side, curled up with the blanket clutched in one hand, covering her from chest to the tips of her toes. She looked cold, so he pulled the blanket up to her throat.

Her eyes fluttered awake, but stayed just halfway open. "'Dan," she whispered.

"Go back to sleep," he told her, with a smile, "You look knocked out."

"Next stop...Paradise," she said hoarsely, smiling a little and breathing out, slowly. Her fingers twitched, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. Her breath hitched, as if she was upset.

"When I was talking to him," she said, shakily, "I was so scared. He could have been you. He could have been our children. It was like I was talking to you – I'm not making any sense..."

Her body started to shake, as if in concert with her voice. His brows furrowed in worry. He had never seen her so vulnerable before.

"I've thought about it," she mumbled, sounding almost-drunk, "I wanted to go away, because they'd have taken him apart, poor Leland. Like they'd have taken you apart. Or me and the children. They'd have taken us all apart-"

"Ana?" he asked, alarmed, and confused, as he picked her up to hold her, and ease her fears. But she was limp as a rag doll, and she felt cold to his touch.

_Too cold_, he thought, and the realization was like a kick to the gut.

He tore at the the sheets around her, and nearly gagged at the sight of the blood that spread on the bed beneath it. He felt as if someone had taken all breath and thought from him.

"Oh gods," he gasped, looking down at her distracted face.

"They did say I was too old," she drawled, incoherent, "Wait - wait 'til they meet _you_..." her voice drifted off, "Gods, Elladan... the children..."

And her head fell against his chest, completely limbless and... and unoccupied.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	25. Marooned

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

24: Marooned

" " "

The City of Los Angeles, California

The United States of America

" " "

"Today sees the beginning of the second day since the disappearance of Lieutenant Detective Leland Greene – a.k.a. Legolas Greenleaf – and still no developments," the grave-looking but otherwise very youthful field reporter said, standing outside the doors of the LAPD station that Leland Greene had once entered and exited every single working day. There was a press-conference wrapping-up just behind her, with the Captain standing behind a podium decorated with the police coat of arms.

"We guarantee that all efforts to search for Lieutenant Greene is being exhausted," the Captain said, "Every single avenue, every single lead. The LAPD is on the job, working closely with other agencies."

"Detective Montes has been quoted as saying that Detective Greene might be better off not found," one of the reporters pointed out, "What does that indicate, and is it a sentiment shared by the Police Force?"

The Captain frowned, and he really could have said something like _Well Montes doesn't think before he talks_. But he bit his lip, and _thought_ about it first.

"Greene is an invaluable member of the LAPD," the Captain said, flatly, "The LAPD is deeply concerned with his welfare. Whether or not that welfare involves finding him or not, it is still our job to locate him and that, we will endeavor to do. He will understand and appreciate that duty comes first."

"There is no doubt in your mind that if you find him, you will turn him over to the other authorities?" another reporter asked, "Even given what you know will happen to him afterwards?"

"That's our job," the Captain snapped, before wincing, "Personally I wish he just up and walked and decided to get out of there and go to the stars or wherever it is elves sleepwalk to. Put an end to all this craziness."

"Can elves do that?" someone asked. The Captain thought the question was profoundly stupid, and looked profoundly sour.

"I don't know what the hell elves can and can't do," he snapped, "Next."

"We heard he's popular with the hookers, Captain," one of the reporters asked, "Know anything about that?"

"Well he's a swell guy," the Captain replied dryly, "I don't know about your experience, but apparently, sometimes you don't have to pay them to like you."

"You knew him over a decade, Captain," someone else asked, "He was in and out of this building every single day. What was he like? In the every, normal, boring day, what was he like?"

The Captain narrowed his weathered eyes in thought. Memories streaked across his eyes; no one rushed or pressed him. The reporters fell silent, collectively began to wonder at the ideas that went through the man's head.

"He got here early and he went home late," the Captain replied, "He didn't take his leaves, so the government basically gets a free pass on the months worth of backpay they owe him if he never gets found. He was always on time for meetings. He drank his coffee, ate his cop-donut... He kept a clean office. He forgot his birthday every single year. He worked hard. He did his job. I can't imagine a better cop."

"You think you'll see him again?"

The Captain hesitated, "If I saw him again that would have meant he'd be dying soon. I think I'd hate that, so I'd rather not. Like I said, I wish he just decided to up and walk and go somewhere."

" " "

London, England

" " "

No one ever thought it would be such a common name.

Suddenly, the media was swamped with Davenport after Davenport after Davenport, each one claiming some distant sort of connection to the one that Legolas Greenleaf had once served. Archives were searched, agencies hired, all in an effort to find some form of ancestry with the Davenports, to find some form of proof that somewhere along the course of Legolas Greenleaf's incredibly long life, someone in their family had been touched by him.

"An offshoot of this," the British reporter, whose story was focused on the wacky, human-interest angle of the Leland Greene saga, said, "Is the unsurprising abundance of fake photographs to be found on the Internet, of a miscellany of characters photo-shopping their own pictures to photos of Leland Greene."

They featured some crude, amateurish creations to really inventive ones. Some were serious in their fraudulent efforts, while others were more casual about their art; notable tampered photographs included humorous pieces showing Leland Greene with big hair in the 80's, and a 90's grunge version.

"What might be more surprising, however," said the reporter, "Is the growing number of earnest people who are quite convinced that Leland Greene had once been with them or their ancestors along the course of their lives."

He cut to an interview with a dazed-looking, thin young man, who spoke unbearably slowly and distractedly, "My grandpa knew him, sure." He raised up a dated photograph of two men, "See? That's Legolas Greenleaf right there."

"Looks nothing like him, mate," the reporter said, his brows furrowing as he looked at the photo closer. The two men, truth be told, looked nothing like anybody; they were heavily bearded and wearing hats.

"He's in disguise," the man replied simply, "He's had to, you know, to hide who he was. I think one of my uncles is actually his son, you know, twice or thrice removed. He's a nice-looking bloke, always young-like--"

The reporter gave the floor back to the news anchor.

" " "

In other parts of the world, the Leland Greene phenomenon manifested in yet other strange ways. An E! True Hollywood Story was going to run in the next week. Hollywood honchos are on the hunt for an interesting script on the elf/man's life. The detective's image in pop-art was put on collectible statement shirts in the trendy stores in New York, where the publishing houses were also running his story. So-called locks of his hair have gone on sale on ebay. In the places where he had lived, a good number of fake and real blondes have claimed some form of ancestry with him. A few pregnant women have claimed he was the father. Sightings not unlike the idea of Elvis Lives! were made left and right, anywhere between Denmark to Tokyo and Colombia.

The world had spun itself into temporary insanity. There was still a good number of people around the hospital where he had been taken from, unwilling to believe he was gone. But the rest have left and shared their fervor wherever they went, and it spread like a disease.

The contributions that Leland Greene valued more were executed much more quietly, in complete contrast.

There was that deed to his apartment that he transfered to Rafael Montes. There was that college fund he set up for four young friends in England, and for all of Montes' children. There was that anonymous donation he made to the retirement fund of soldiers and policemen, to a host of Rigare-run charities, and one mind-boggling donation to an international forest recovery program. As he would have preferred, these transactions were completed in secret, as few other things about him now were.

Of course his friends and acquaintances did not escape scrutiny either. It has been observed that his Austrian 'distant relations' were missing, as was friend Jimmy Goran and his partner Horace Harding. The Rigares were 'on vacation' in an undisclosed location. Adrian Aarons, the man widely held to be the chief culprit in the kidnapping, had of course gone into hiding, and his wife, supermodel Arianne Underhill, was also missing. The most elusive catch, however, was Anatalia Craxi. What was her relationship with the elf? Why was she chosen for the exclusive? How long had she known about him? But no one knew where she was, not even her family.

In their absence, the media took what they could, and reporters camped outside the offices and homes of Rafael Montes and their Station Captain. The few living men who worked with Greene in the world wars and in Scotland Yard were sought out and interviewed. His former torturer, Grissom Warrington, made himself particularly accessible.

"If you want to find him," the man said, his tongue lingering and indulgent, as in a hiss, "I would watch the sea."

"The sea?" the reporter he was with asked, skeptically.

"The elves have a Thing about the sea," he replied, "You look like a sharp sort of chap. Ambitious. You want to be the one that nails him, you go look at the sea."

The reporter found the advice to be vague, and suspicious. He frowned, made a note, but did nothing else.

" " "

Paris, France

" " "

Ana woke up to a miscellany of faces; white-clad strangers that she had first convinced herself were angels, before her next few forays into consciousness gave her more grounded awareness that they were _probably_ nurses or doctors. She woke up to the faces of new friends, and the face of the man/elf she loved.

She spotted his distinct silhouette against the window, glowing from the dim light of the night outside. His shoulders hung low and stooped, and he stared out at nothing.

"Elladan?" she whispered.

He whipped to face her, and covered the space between them in two wide strides. He held her hand in his, and it was the first time she felt she even had a hand at all, since waking up. "You're all right."

"The children?" she asked.

"Everything's fine," he assured her, "Everyone's fine..."

Relief was dizzying.

"We have to leave soon," she said, shifting, in some form of an attempt to move, and get back up.

"Everything's fine," he told her urgently, "Just relax..."

There was something in his eyes, she thought, and she felt as if she was just figuring things out, except wakefulness was not merely elusive, it was also hideously finite. She slid back into oblivion, her questions dying in her mind.

When she finally attained a firmer grasp of wakefulness, she held on, and waited for the world to clear, and settle. Beside her was the earnest face of her finance's twin brother. In a lesser frame of mind, she might have mistaken them. She might have mistaken a lot of things; it was still night, though she had a feeling it was not the same one.

"Thank god," Elrohir breathed excitedly, "Let me go get Elladan--"

Ana grabbed him by the arm, her grip surprisingly strong and insistent. She wasn't sure why she did that, until Elrohir stared at her uncertainly as he sat back down and she gathered her thoughts.

"Where...?" she murmured.

"Would you believe me if I said that this is the second time I've had to answer that question in this exact kind of situation?" he sighed, "Paris. It was the nearest, best facility we could find from Ile Rene"

"How long?" she asked, licking her lips. He picked up a glass of water and put it to her lips. She nodded at him gratefully.

"Two days," Elrohir answered, with a wince.

"Have the ships arrived?" she asked, "The ones from Vienna? When are we leaving?"

"I have to go get 'Dan," Elrohir said, attempting to get up. She gripped him tighter.

"Wait."

He chewed at the inside of his mouth, and he looked like he was contemplating the situation that he was in.

"Talk to me," she implored him, eyes begging, the first time he had ever seen her beg, "There are things you would say that he never would."

"Those are the things that I _shouldn't_ say," he pointed out.

She blinked, and looked up at the ceiling, miserable. She swallowed, thickly, "Then give me just this: Can I leave?"

" " "

_I hate hospitals_, Elladan thought grimly, as he looked through the papers that the doctors instructed him to sign. He read through them carefully, brows furrowed.

_Complications_, the doctors have explained.

_You think?!_ he wanted to retort, except he knew that it would not have been helpful. Somewhere between the medical terms and the thick French accents, the doctors managed to get out that her condition was not uncommon, but that if they wanted the mother to survive and the children to carry to term and live, she would need to stay here, stay still, and be under constant supervision. Their condition was extremely delicate, and involved an operation that would be conducted by a known-specialist in a few months. It was a dangerous situation, yes, but most mothers and kids who have had to undergo the treatment have survived. It was simple, really. All she had to do was stay here, and stay still.

_Stay here, stay still_...

Complications_ is an understatement_.

He scrawled his signature on the sheets in a shameless chicken scratch of some invented name. Ana's name they could not cover up, since the hospital needed access to her records. However, he and Elrohir used made-up ones, pretending to be her bodyguards. He hadn't even called up her parents yet.

He shoved the papers back to a stunned-looking nurse, before looking at her apologetically and staring at the door to his fiance's room.

He thought about busting her out of here, and knew it would be far less complicated than what they had done for Legolas.

_But that's not the point_, he berated himself. They had to get Legolas out because that was his only hope. To stay was death, and there was no two ways about it. With Ana, her salvation was _here_. Her medical situation, while potentially fatal, held solutions _here_. To take her with them was to risk her, and his children, in an almost certainly disastrous manner.

_We can wait_, he thought desperately, _Wait for her, wait for the children_.

And at the same time, he recognized that it was impossible. Legolas couldn't wait. When he last heard from the island a few hours ago, the elven prince was rapidly losing focus and awareness, some of the things that he had once been so proud of. More and more he awoke confused and discomfited, and, unable to communicate, only grew more agitated. Aragorn said that he also started having mild seizures, a sure sign that he was losing more control and functions. The fever started to spike, and the bleeding still hadn't stopped. There was no doubt that they were running out of time. The elven ships were two days away from Rene, and even those two days seemed too long. There was no way he could wait. The ships would have to be ready to go out into open ocean the moment they get there.

The rest of them couldn't wait either; Imladris was already being searched, and soon, activity will be traced to the sea, and possibly the island. They knew that to take Legolas meant that time would be moving faster. There wasn't going to be any waiting.

_Ana can't leave_, he deduced, grimly, _And I'm not going anywhere without her_.

" " "

"So it goes that way, hm?" Ana murmured, watching her would've-been-brother-in-law's frowning face.

"I'm not telling you a thing," Elrohir insisted, stubbornly.

"And that is precisely why you need not do so anymore," she said, her eyes soft and thoughtful.

The elf before her groaned, and ran a frustrated hand over his hair. He shook his head, in a useless effort to shake off his feelings.

"I can't leave," she said, as calmly as she could, though her voice was trembling, "And all of you can't stay."

"He will insist," Elrohir growled, angry at the situation, and unsure as to what he was supposed to do about it, "You know he will not go anywhere without you. No rhyme or reason to loving someone, with that one. With anyone, for that matter."

"He should go," she said, simply.

"Try telling him that," Elrohir retorted, "If it came from my mouth, I'd have to duck right after or it just won't end pretty."

"They'll come after him if he stays," she said, taking a deep breath, "Then they'll know to come after me. They'll come after the children, because they'll be the only ones left."

"He won't hear any of that," Elrohir predicted, "He'll tell you that as long as you're together, you can find some way to work it out."

She looked at him, searchingly. "Will he be right?"

Elrohir stared at her for a long moment. "What do you think?" he asked her, his mouth dry, for he knew the answer, and knew also that she had the same one.

He tried imagining himself in Elladan's position. It wasn't so hard, really; he did not have to imagine not-wanting to go. He also did not have to imagine wanting to find someone to love _here_ – modern, reckless, existential, impassioned loving.

He always thought of modern love like the tube, or, or the frigging subway, whatever these underground commuter rail systems were called in whatever country they were from. The trains ran so fast that everything on the window turned into an indistinct blur. There was nothing to be seen outside but black and occasional splashes and lines of colors speeding by before one could figure out what they were. Occasionally, though, another train would be moving at roughly the same speed as your train, on a parallel track, and for the first time, you can look through your window and see eye-to-eye with someone who was riding the other train. The connection is finite, but definite. Everything else around you is a blur, but you can see each other clearly, because you are both moving in more or less that same speed, more or less toward the same direction. It's not quite the same as being on the same train, no... the man and the woman would have had different paths, different lives, different wants, except they moved in roughly the same pace, and the same direction.

He blanched at the prevalent idea of romantic love as he had seen it done in the elven-sense. Often formal and official, often wildly consuming, often involving everyone else's relatives, because everyone knew everybody there. He was also still debating the merits of the literal _forever_ part.

_Thinking like a bachelor, or what_? he berated himself.

_Do they have divorce in Valinor, _he wondered, thinking, _They should._

_Maybe I can start it. Offer my services for a consultation fee._

He shook his head, willed himself to focus. He imagined finding that one someone he could love, maybe even cure him of his forever-aversion. And then he imagined having to leave her.

_He'll tell you that as long as you're together, you can find some way to work it out..._

_Will he be right_?

"No," she said, hoarsely, "If he stayed, they will come after him. If he sought our togetherness, they will know to come after the children. If he stayed, others will stay with him; perhaps you, perhaps some of your loyal household. He won't be left alone, because he'll need aid along the course of life here, as well as to build a ship that would bear him away in the future. That means more elves left to hunt down. No. He will be a danger to me and the children, a danger to himself, and a danger to all who will join him. What is love and desire, really, against all of this? It is selfish, and insane."

"Which is what it has always been," Elrohir said, wistfully, "Which is why, again, we come to the fact that he will hear none of this. He will insist on staying, hiding out, and then just following on to Valinor later."

"There is no hiding out in the life that I have," she said, distastefully, "We all know this painfully well. After everything that has transpired, I will be ever more scrutinized, and they will have an eye for him. It will not take people long to figure it all out.

"Elladan can't stay," she said, definitively, "And I won't let him."

He stared at her earnest face.

_She is recruiting volunteers_, he realized, aghast.

"I will have no part in this," Elrohir said, lethally softly, rising from his seat, "I am sorry, Ana. I'll get Elladan now."

"Goodbye, Elrohir," she told him, meaning it quite fully.

He turned around and looked at her with troubled suspicion, softening to a kind and regretful look. But he just walked away.

She watched him leave, and was already concocting a contingency plan. She knew one man who wouldn't mind removing Elladan from her life.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A tear strayed to her cheek. She wiped it away furiously, and set her jaws and furrowed her brows in thought, and determination.

" " "

Ile Rene, The French Coast

The Atlantic Ocean

" " "

"Now what are you hobbits up to over there?"

Pippin, Sam, Merry and Frodo whipped around to find Brad Greer standing by the door to the massive, modern kitchen. The space was supposedly well-equipped and modern, but looked as if a tornado had casually passed by and left everything a mess. Something smelled like hair burning, and Brad's eyes immediately strayed toward Pippin's face. Oddly enough, he found the charred tips along Frodo's bangs instead.

"We're cooking," Sam replied, before wincing, "Or trying, at least. I thought it's something I could be good at, looking at all the equipment here. I guess I might have been too ambitious."

"The ships are coming in two days," Mark added, "The moment they get here, all the elves will be leaving right away. We thought it would be nice, you know, for those of us here to sit down and have a decent meal together, for the last time."

Brad glanced at Frodo. "You all right?"

The young man smiled a bit, "You look surprised."

"I was expecting the burnt hair to be on someone else's head," Brad said, wryly.

"No," Pippin said cheerfully, quite pleased with himself about the unexpected good behavior, "Not this time, Boromir."

"That's only because he was relegated to the clean-as-you-go portion," Mark pointed out, "No open flames for you."

Boromir looked around the messy room. Yes. It was quite obvious that Peregrin Took was assigned to the cleaning up. Indeed.

"Well it's a much more important task than the one to which you have been assigned," Pippin snapped.

"I daresay there's few other tasks more important to this project than keeping Lady Eowyn and her 'cooking' away from the kitchens!" Merry snapped back.

"You think you have use for one more pair of hands?" Boromir asked, dusting off his palms and looking ready and eager for work.

"We were trying to figure out who to assign the chopping to," Frodo said.

"I think that had better be me," Boromir laughed, heading for the boards.

"Good call," Pippin grinned.

"What are we making?" Boromir asked, frowning at the miscellany of ingredients thrust his way.

Sam started to explain the nuances of some sort of a casserole with potatoes and a thick, rich sauce. Something his grandfather used to make, an old family recipe that took a lot of time and attention. The five men went about their tasks in pleasant company.

"This was a very good idea," Boromir said, tossing some diced potatoes in a pan. He was good with a knife, by god, "We have been living off of Red Bull and instant noodles the last few days. Hard to imagine, the last meal of the Fellowship together to be like that."

"Hard to imagine any sort of last meal together at all," said Pippin, sounding sad and distracted.

"You were there," Boromir said with a grunt, "At the first breaking. I mean, everyone was, except for me."

"It doesn't get any easier, I tell you that," Pippin said, "But this Take Two of ours is already looking a bit more promising than the first. I mean, you're here. And..." he glanced at Frodo, "And he's staying. That is, as far as I know. The last one took us by surprise too."

"I'm not going anywhere this time," Frodo reassured him.

"Who's saying anything about any of you leaving?" Sam asked, feathers ruffled, inexplicably hurt by the possibility of it, as if his soul was remembering Samwise Gamgee's own pain.

"No one," Pippin said, shrugging.

"Well maybe Take Three will be even better," Boromir said with a mad gleam in his eye, "Maybe next time we'll all be better off."

"Thinking about one more take makes my head spin," Pippin sighed, melodramatically, "I just want a quiet life. Most of the time."

"Don't we all," Frodo agreed, smiling a little.

" " "

The times he stayed awake were becoming shorter and shorter.

More and more, it felt as if the end was coming.

Every time that his eyes closed, it felt as if that could have been the last they would ever see of his laser blue eyes. It was this nagging fear that had pressed Gimli and Aragorn to less sleep and less time away from the ailing elf's side. Anytime Legolas woke, they wanted to be in that field of vision. It also created a peculiar habit for the two of them. Whatever the last thing the elf wrote on the white board after a conversation, they absolutely refused to erase it, until he woke again to write something else. The habit was odd, and was formed without words or agreements. It seemed they just shared in the fear that they would not have been able to capture their friend's last words, his last thoughts.

_What were you thinking, when you thought you were about to die_? they wondered. The white board conversations sometimes ended with a _Good night_. It often ended with a _You're insane. I'm tired. You look terrible..._ he woke and slept and wrote and thought a lot of things, and_ m_orbidly, they wondered about what Legolas could be writing or thinking of for the very last time.

Those moments defined a man, they thought, most certainly. People were persecuted and killed throughout history for their beliefs. They died saints with prayers on their lips and their souls looking toward God. Heroes died with causes and the lives of other people on their minds. Lovers died thinking of each other, names were the whispers of their final breaths. What will Legolas be thinking when he thinks he's going to die? What is important?

Gimli blinked awake from his uncomfortable doze on the chair next to Legolas' bed. He opened his eyes to narrow slits, and found Aragorn awake, standing over on Legolas' other side. The man's shoulders were hunched and low, and the ex-dwarf could see the tears that wet his eyes. He was crying, silently, one hand holding the white board, the other, tightly fisted and shoved over his mouth to hush his breaths. For a moment, Gimli felt his heart stop.

_Dead_? He wondered, until his saner self reminded him of the incessant sound of the heart monitor.

Gimli gave Aragorn no indication that he was awake, and watching.

_Cry, lad_, he thought_, Cry, and catch your breath_.

He realized that he had only ever seen Aragorn grieve a friend thrice – for Gandlaf and Boromir, and to a lesser extent, for Theoden. All these were a long, long time ago. And at no time could he have ever thought he would be crying about Legolas, who had always stood by his side, somehow. Unscathed, immaculate-looking, _immortal_ Legolas.

Gimli's gaze drifted toward the elf, very deeply asleep. Curiously, the black sharpie he's been using to communicate with them was lying forgotten on his gracefully open right hand. The cap was off, and the ink stained at the tips of his fingers. Gimli narrowed his eyes and stared at the white board on Aragorn's hands.

The last words they did not erase – '_Sorry. Tired.'_ - were marked over by a wide, aggressive, swooping 'X.' Beneath it, the elf wrote, probably while his two watchers were asleep, _'Thank you for trying. Xcept 4 both ur snoring, I m very x2 happy you are here._'

TO BE CONTINUED...


	26. The Most Beautiful Day

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

" " "

25: The Most Beautiful Day

" " "

Paris, France

" " "

They did not talk about that thing that was plaguing them both.

Elladan stepped inside her room and gave her a winning smile. Anatlia smiled right back, the love shining in her brilliant eyes. He knew then that he was doing the right thing in staying with her. She knew then that she was doing the right thing to send him away and save him and their children.

She asked him to have coffee with her, shyly, and beautifully, as if it had been that first time she had asked him to do so, what felt like ages ago, when she first met him in a tiny antique store in Europe. Two steaming mugs were on her nightstand, a concession provided her by a nurse she had spoken with earlier.

"Coffee for me," he said, sitting next to her hand, "Water for you."

"Unfair," she teased him quietly, as he ran a hand over her red hair, "But accepted."

He smiled, and picked up the mug.

"I've spoken with father," she said, as he took a tentative sip.

"This coffee is strong," he aid, brows raising, "They really know how to keep doctors awake in this place. What about Marcelo?"

"He will be coming here," she said, "Not very long now."

"Just as well," he said, under his breath, probably thinking that they might need to get along, what with him and Ana staying around. Distractedly, he finished the coffee before he knew it.

She stared at his face, searching. "You're so beautiful."

"Don't make me blush," he teased her.

She smiled up at him and touched his face. There was something in her eyes, he noticed, something unbearably sad and hopeless.

"Everything will be fine, Ana," he told her quickly, earnestly, "I swear it. I will always look after you. Everything will be all... right..." he noticed that he spoke before he thought, and that the room was beginning to take on a distortion that was not unknown to him, a sensation that often ended with some semblance of unconsciousness.

The realization must have crossed his eyes, as they shot toward hers, accusingly. His suspicions were verified by the regret in her gaze.

"I am so very sorry, Elladan," she said, her voice breaking as she began to cry.

His eyes shot to the call button for the nurse. They will help him, yes, they will... Save him from the heroic efforts of his crazy wife-to-would-have-been, since, god forbid, after this stunt of hers, he might not want her anymore...

She took it before he could, she was more alert than he was by this time. She shoved it beneath her back and stubbornly stayed on top of it. She grabbed his hands, and slipped her fingers in the spaces between his, stopping him, encompassing him.

"Ana, please," he said, finding his voice just a notch above a whisper, "Don't do this..." he cleared his throat as he tried to step away from her and swayed instead, "Elrohir!" he called, or at least, tried to. His voice was vanishing...

She pulled him toward her, and drowned out all his calls for help in a deep, passionate kiss. His tears mixed with hers, falling in creeks of creases down to the pillow beneath her head.

"Your solutions will not do, my love," she told him, softly, "I cannot ask you to stay, because others will stay with you and such a move, even for just a little while, will endanger all of you. And you staying will ultimately endanger our children."

"We can stay," he whispered, "And build a ship to follow the others later, when you are ready, it won't take so long. We can do it--"

"How long will that take?" she asked him, "In the last few days, they have taken hold of your home and searched it. Soon they will trace everything-- the planes, the island. And this is only in the next few days. What do you think these people are capable of, given a few months of searching? And I don't think building some, some kind of a magical elf-ship will be a walk in the park. Building it will take long enough for them to find you, I am certain. Where can you hide, if you are with me? The eyes of the world are turned our way. And where can you hide, building a goddamn ship? If you do find a place to hind, how long can you stay there? How long 'til you have to run again? And can you bring that ship with you? There might be places to hide, but not for the time we need. You cannot stay, not even to follow them later. And I cannot go, not right now."

She kissed him and he sank against her, seemingly emptied and spent, and nearly completely unconscious.

"Just lie with me," she told him, softly, almost begging, "Everything will be fine, Elladan. I will always look after you."

She pulled him close, and scooted to make room for him on her bed. She turned her back on him, and pressed her back against his chest as she encased herself in his arms. They curled up together, and his hand drifted to her inhabited belly. The babies inside her did not so much kick, as they _shifted_ toward the touch of their father's warm palm. She felt them move toward him, as he must have also felt, for he tightened his grip around her with one arm and kept his other, gentler palm over her stomach. Drugged, and profoundly disarmed, he sobbed against her hair, smelling it, remembering her scents and the lines of her body and just the bare feeling of having her in his arms and he held her, and held their unborn children, until they all fell asleep.

" " "

Ile Rene, the French Coast

The Atlantic Ocean

" " "

The spread of food was a beautiful, plentiful one, a look of indulgent abundance that gave no clue at all of the mess they had left behind in the kitchens.

They set up tables and chairs on the hallway just outside of Legolas' room. They kept the door open to keep an eye on him, and to give them all some sense of the unconscious elf's inclusion in the meal.

"This is very impressive indeed," Aragorn said to the hobbits, looking openly surprised and delighted.

"We thought, perhaps," said Frodo, "What with everyone leaving..."

"Trust a hobbit to know," said the dwarf, already rubbing his palms together in anticipation of his meal as he looked at the food, "That good food can always raise one's spirits."

They all found their places at the table. The head of it was, by habit, left by all to Aragorn, with the seat to his left belonging to Arwen, who sat next to Boromir. The seat to Aragorn's right, traditionally Legolas', was left bare by accident. Gimli left it unoccupied and sat beside it, before he thought twice, and hesitantly changed seats. Beside him sat Haldir, and then Faramir and Eowyn. Each of the hobbits found their own places.

"It's too bad about those who cannot join us," said Merry, "Lord Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir and Ana being in France and Emmett and Gandalf and the elves on the ships."

"We shall eat heartily for them, Meriadoc," Gimli told him soothingly, his mouth already full, "And they are in our hearts, always. Especially the Lady Galadriel."

"You can eat enough for an army," Haldir told him, wryly, "You really must watch that diet, Master Dwarf. Your physique is not what it used to be. A dwarf's portion is not at all healthy for a man of any size."

"I seldom eat like this," Gimli said, "It is a special occasion. Besides, the same advice must be impressed upon the hobbits."

"But we need to eat a lot," Pippin said, "We're all still growing."

Aragorn laughed, his weathered, weary eyes crinkling.

"If you want him eating less," Eowyn said wryly, "You must let me in the kitchen the next time."

"I thought you were being discreet?" Pippin whispered to Merry, which of course meant that everyone on the table heard them. Merry's face reddened in profound embarrassment. Eowyn just laughed.

"You are not so bad," her husband offered her, awkwardly, which only made the situation so much more absurd. She patted his hand in thanks, and her eyes twinkled at him in humor.

They ate that way for a little while, talking about normal, everyday things. They talked about college plans, and the Perils of the Hunt for Rosie Cotton. Eowyn talked about her job, and the new foundation that she and Faramir were creating. It was a good, almost-ordinary dinner. But as in all things, it soon drew to a close.

"Before we all say good night," Frodo said, clearing his throat, "There are things that we want to give our friends for the road ahead."

"This time tomorrow," Pippin said, "You'd have all gone, and well... things will be much more quiet, won't it?"

"Not as long as you stay here," Gimli said, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion. He glanced at Legolas' open door.

"Please note," said Merry, "That we have been limited by our speedy flight here to our resourcefulness and ingenuity."

"_Now_ I am scared," Haldir said, wryly.

"For Haldir," announced Pippin, drawing out a black bow-tie, "We found this in the server's closet. It looked clean, and I don't think they'd miss it, but it looks just like the ones James Bond wore. I reckon they won't have that in Valinor, ha!"

"Thank you, _mellon-nin_," Haldir said, sincerely, taking the present with both hands, and touching the bow reverently, "I will wear it in good faith, and think always of how I was wearing one the first time I ran into you in this life, and you ran away from me."

"It just might catch on over there too," Merry said with a decisive nod, "Stranger things have happened."

"For Strider and the Evenstar," said Frodo, "We have invaded the business center, and printed all of your wedding pictures." He handed them an envelope bursting with its contents, "That you may look upon these, and remember us, and this place, and for your son to see who your good friends were."

"For Gimli and Legolas," said Merry, "We have raided the recreation room, and decided that in times of peace, they should still be able to challenge each other at something." He drew out two long, flat boxes, "For its challenges, and pop culture references, we give you 'Monopoly' and 'Life.'"

The dwarf took the presents as if they were treasures, and he laughed, wistfully, as he looked down at the covers of the games. He glanced again at Legolas, and hoped that he would still have a competitor at the end of all this.

"And for the elves," said Sam, drawing out several pieces of paper, again, undoubtedly printed from the business center, "We have donated money for trees to be planted in their names, in a reforestation project in South America. These are the certificates."

"I will make certain that they receive this," Haldir said, smiling gratefully.

"Did you get nothing for Mithrandir?" Gimli asked.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh," said Pippin excitedly, "Of course we got him something too. But that will have to wait until later."

"Is it safe?" Haldir asked, wryly.

"Most of the time," Frodo said with a small smile.

"I wish that the rest of us thought to get you something too," said Eowyn.

"You have already done so much--" Aragorn began, before Pippin piped in.

"Oh we can still split the costs if you want," he said with a grin, "I'm sure they'll charge us after they inventory this place and find a load of stuff missing."

" " "

Paris, France

" " "

"I may be getting too old for this," Marcelo grunted as he and the nurse he had paid off to drug his would-have-been-son-in-law at the behest of his daughter, worked together to pick up the unconscious elf from the bed and drop him on a wheelchair.

Ana was awake and looking pale and shell-shocked, but also very sternly closed. The woman had her mind made up.

"He will be very mad at me," Ana said, flatly, as she watched them.

"He will never forgive you," agreed Marcelo.

"Good," she sighed, "So that he wouldn't ever come back."

"There are many other ways to get rid of a man," the nurse said, and she was of course, little informed of the real situation.

"That is true," Marcelo said, and Ana looked at her father wryly, quite certain that the nurse and he were thinking of two completely different meanings to that statement...

"Just tell him you don't love him," the nurse said.

"Just shoot him and bury him," muttered Marcelo.

"A man like this always knows when he is loved," Ana said softly to the naïve nurse with a reminiscent smile, completely ignoring her father's quip, "There is no fooling him. He will just hate me more for wasting his time."

Her father scowled at her, but said nothing. The bottom line was that Elladan was going to be out of his daughter's life, and that was all he cared about.

"Say goodbye, Ana," Marcelo said, gruffly, and with carefully-restrained, but still undeniably-present glee.

She frowned at her father. "Be careful with him."

Marcelo consented with a half-hearted shrug.

"Promise," she begged.

He rolled his eyes back in irritation, but grunted more convincingly, "Promise."

" " "

"What the hell?" Elrohir breathed, watching the fairly surreal and comical scene unfold before him, of his unconscious twin slumped against a wheelchair being pushed across a parking lot by his despised father-in-law Marcelo Craxi. Their father Elrond, who had gone with them to Paris from Ile Rene during the emergency, frowned also.

"Many things in this day and age confuse me," Elrond said, as he sipped the coffee they stepped out of the hospital to get, "But I don't suppose this makes sense to you either."

"You might be surprised," Elrohir sighed, handing his father his own steaming cup, and jogging toward Marcelo and Elladan as he muttered, "I turn my back on you for two minutes..."

He caught up to them at an easy run. Marcelo was loading Elladan in the backseat of the car with the aid of his equally-aging chauffeur.

"Mister Craxi!" Elrohir exclaimed, struggling to keep a light, conversational tone.

"Ah, you," Craxi said, his face showing no expression of guilt or confusion of what he was doing, "Good, good. Perhaps you can help me."

Elrohir looked at him dubiously. "You are apparently kidnapping my unconscious brother and stuffing him on the backseat of your car like groceries, Mr. Craxi. I can't see how you could _possibly_ think that I would want to do something like that."

Marcelo shrugged, and then began to proceed about his business.

Confused, Elrohir took a moment to watch him work, before groaning in realization, "Ana put you up to this."

"She said you're stubborn and loyal beyond reason," Marcelo said simply, "But that certain points of no return could sway you our way."

"I will not assist you in dragging my unwilling brother anywhere," Elrohir snapped, "He'll be impossible for the next two hundred years and _I_ have to live with him."

"You will not do it," breathed Marcelo, searching his face, "Not even to save his life? To save the life of the children who will be harmed by the barest of associations with him? To save the life of the woman he loves? To save the lives of people who will be endangered just by his being here?"

_This is not fair_, Elrohir sighed, glancing at his father, who had just arrived at the scene. He looked at Elladan mildly, and then at Elrohir, expectant. Those sharp elven ears heard everything, that's for sure.

"_Ada_?" Elrohir asked, with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. It was not fair at all for decisions like this to fall on him. Especially if there are like, parents around who were technically supposed to be burdened with these things.

"He will hate us if we take him perforce, _Ada_," Elrohir said, "And yet I cannot deny the danger he presents to himself and all who surround him. I guarantee you, however, that he will not be reasoned with. If we do not take him by force, he will stay here, I know that for a fact."

Elrond frowned in thought, and looked at Marcelo. "All that parents really and truly want for their children is to be well and happy. It's almost simple, isn't it?"

"In cases such as these," Marcelo agreed with a grunt, "The well and the happy cannot be had at the same time. Parted they will be safe, together they will be happy. In my eye, though, to keep them together is to endanger them to a level where the happy will be too fleeting, we might as well choose the avenue that is far less finite."

"You have an excellent point, Mister Craxi," Elrond conceded, "But there is a unique facet to elven character that you could not have known about. For elves, with our more marked connection to the soul, despair presents as lethal a threat as physical harm. In _my_ eye, to keep them apart is to endanger them to a level where the _safe_ will be too fleeting. Unless...Hm. He's quite drugged. How much did you give him?"

"Double the usual human dose," Marcelo replied, "I was told he was hardy, and it could have been a triple, but I do not want to end up killing him, contrary to popular opinion."

"He'll be out of commission for awhile," Elrohir predicted, hesitating a little, "But he is not completely beyond access. He'd have given you problems in an hour at most. What are you thinking about, father?"

"Despair," Elrond murmured, as he scooted past them to sit next to his unconscious son in the backseat, "Is an interesting feeling. It is defeat matched by complete and utter hopelessness. There is no hunger, no _future_, to it. There are forces that press you to the ground, and there you remain in the belief that you cannot ever get up. And so you don't.

"Despair," he said, touching his son's face, "Despair, you see, does not kill. Once it has begun it is already symptomatic of death." He patted Elladan's face, "Wake now, my son. You hear my voice, now seek my eyes."

No response.

"Is it wise to wake him?" Marcelo asked.

"'Dan!" Elrohir exclaimed, more-or-less helpfully, "'Dan! Wake up!"

Elladan began to stir, as bid, and his eyes began to flutter.

"Seek my eyes," Elrond gripped Elladan by the shoulders and commanded softly, in that way that only he could. It was a voice that have called them thus many times before; to wake them for tasks and such as children, and then to rouse them from the lethal sleep following battles and hurts when they were older. Elladan did as he was asked, as he had many times before.

His bleary eyes flickered awake, and found his father's intense gaze on him. Tears immediately rose unbidden, tears of relief; he instantly thought that he had found an ally. Elrohir winced in sympathy.

"Thank god you are here," Elladan whispered, taking a deep breath, as he struggled for evasive awareness, "_Ada _you must help me..."

"I never thought I would say this," Elrond said with a grim smile, "But I cannot believe that of my three children, only Elrohir has spared me from so harsh a choice as this."

"You couldn't possibly--" Elladan gasped, struggling against his father's grasp, "She is mad, _Ada_, mad, I tell you, she is not thinking straight--"

"No one seems to be," Elrond told him softly, "My son. I know you are weary of body and heart. I only have three questions for you, which you must answer in complete thought and honesty, after which you can go back to sleep. After you've answered these questions, I guarantee that you will not beg of my aid any longer, as you would already know what my decision and actions will be.

"First," Elrond took a deep breath, "If I decide to aid your wife and take you from here by force, will you fight me?"

"Why are you doing this?" Elladan groaned, "You are my father, _help me_. You cannot – must not – take me anywhere that I do not choose to go. You did not do so for Arwen--"

"She is different," Elrond said, mildly, "She only endangered herself. You are endangering those you seek to protect. Now, answer my question--"

"Tooth and nail," Elladan growled at his father, punctuating his reply with a burning glare, "Every single step of the way--"

"Second," Elrond cut him off, sounding deceptively calm, though a breathless Elrohir watched as his father's body trembled, and knew then how hard this was for him, "Do you understand why she asked for us to do this? Do you understand why this needs to be done--"

"No!" Elladan seethed, "No--"

"Think," Elrond snapped, "Think before you answer, boy. I am not asking you to agree. To agree and to understand are two different things. Do you understand why people think you should be away?"

Elladan set his jaws and stared at his father, angrily. But there was anguish there that simmered beneath the pool of his watery eyes. He closed them, and looked as if he was willing to be unconscious again.

"Do you understand?" Elrond urged, shaking him once, for emphasis.

Elrohir's eyes were wide in fear. Elrond was never one to be trifled with in matters of life and death for those he loved. Elrohir was breathless, and deeply unhappy for his brother. He gave an uncharacteristically quiet and pensive Marcelo beside him a thoughtful

Elrond shook Elladan again, and Elladan growled at him in annoyance and defeat. "No," he spat out, so obviously lying, "I don't understand--"

"You give me the truth, though you do not say it," Elrond said, gently, "My last question is this: How long will you hate me, for the things I am about to do?"

Elladan blinked at the tears in his eyes, and the weariness that was taking over him once again, "I believe," he murmured, as he sank against his father's grip, his strength and mind and heart utterly spent, "I believe I will be spending quite a lot of time," his bleary eyes drifted past Elrond's shoulder to Elrohir, Marcelo, and the hospital building beyond them, "Hating quite a lot of people."

When he fell back asleep, Elrohir released a long breath he'd been holding. He stared at his father, who was playing with his other son's hair, and settling him on the seat more comfortably in an almost compulsive manner, his adroit hands busy as his mind sought the distraction.

"Father?" Elrohir called to him, softly, wanting those busy, nervous hands to sit still a moment.

They did, and Elrond looked at his other son with quiet anguish, before turning his eyes toward Marcelo's.

"It is hard, being a father," Elrond said.

It was the first time they understood each other. Marcelo gave him a curt nod.

"I advise two more doses of whatever you gave him, if we expect him to be docile on the trip," Elrond said.

"I need some air," Elrohir muttered, feeling sick to his stomach, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away.

" " "

"Cigar?"

Elrohir did not bother to turn around and face Marcelo Craxi, who came up behind him. He found an obscure corner of the parking lot, near a a trash bin, to lord over and brood at.

"Tempting," he said, tartly, "But no."

Elrohir heard the rustling of a coat, recognized it as an indication that the old man must have shrugged. The unwelcome tone, however, was not enough to shoo him away. He lit his cigar and stood with the elf, prompting Elrohir to sigh, and face him.

"You must be pretty damn relieved and happy about all this," Elrohir snapped at him.

"Do not take that anger out on me," Marcelo told him, "In this instance, it is undeserved."

Elrohir shook his head and disgust and dismay. "What do you want from me? Why are you here? You got what you want already. We're outta here."

"What I want is for my child to be happy," Marcelo corrected him, "Neither your father or myself got that today."

"What do you want from _me_?" Elrohir asked, hoping it clearly conveyed that he wanted Marcelo to go away and let him brood in peace.

"I don't..." Marcelo hesitated, "I don't think I was unfair to your brother. He understood me, at any length. As your own father said, to agree with me is not the same as understanding me, but Elladan understood me, I think. What Ana meant to me, and what I am willing to do for her. He understood it, it was not unlike him either.

"What," he paused, "What I regret, about all this, is that I suppose I never got to tell him that... that I don't _mind_ him, as much as I used to."

"That's flattering," Elrohir muttered, "You'll bring him to tears--"

"None of that now," Marcelo warned him gruffly, and Elrohir remembered to check the sarcasm and note that this could not possibly have been any easier on the prideful tycoon.

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly, and very, very honestly.

"I find it hard not to have any respect for a man – elf – whatever," Marcelo said, "Who has to be drugged and dragged away from the side of my daughter. I guess to tell you, feels like I am telling him."

"Yeah," Elrohir joked, wearily, "Twins. Go figure."

"Tell him I am very sorry about the situation," Marcelo said, "It's a crazy world, this one that we love and live in, isn't it? But it is just being what it is. One day it will change, and maybe even us along with it. In the meantime, some people have to stay and others have to go. Some will live and others will die. Some will end happy and others will not. We just... go on."

He fished something out of his pockets. Two envelopes, one sealed and signed in Ana's bold, sweeping script, the other torn open.

"This is for your brother," Marcelo said, of the sealed envelope.

"I should hope so," Elrohir said, smiling tightly as he accepted the letter.

"This," Marcelo took out a blurry-looking picture from the opened envelope, and handed it to Elrohir, "This is for you."

Elrohir turned it over in his hands, and blinked at the tears that came unbidden from his eyes when he realized he was being handed an ultrasound photograph of the twins.

"She sent this to me and her mother," Marcelo said, "I don't know if you've seen them, I think she was thinking of surprising your brother."

"I've..." Elrohir was speechless, as he looked at the photograph closely, and flipped it around. He couldn't tell up from down and one part from another, but good god, he really was going to be somebody's uncle!

"I've never seen these before," he said, gulping, as he released a teary laugh, "If we ever come back and look for them I don't think we'll be able to recognize them from these, but... Thank you. Thank you, Mister Craxi. Truly."

Marcelo pursed his lips and nodded. "Have a good journey, boy. Look after your brother for my Ana. She loves him so."

" " "

Ile Rene, The French Coast

The Atlantic Ocean

" " "

The helicopter bearing Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir arrived a scant few minutes just ahead of the elven ship that arrived at the private dock. They went straight from the aircraft to the ship, bearing a conscious but heavily sedated, obviously-blitzed and lethally quiet Elladan between them.

"What happened?" Celebrian asked, upon sight of them. She held Elladan's face in her hands. He winced, and looked away from her.

"I got him," Elrohir said to his father, who, assured that Elladan would be taken care of, released his hold and took his wife by the elbow, undoubtedly to explain the situation. Galadriel and Celeborn followed after them. Gandalf lingered by Elrohir, as an awkward Eomer left the ship and muttered something about helping out at the house.

"They'll be all right, 'Dan," Elrohir told him, softly, "So will you."

The empty, lonely gaze drifted his way.

"I'll see them again," Elladan said, softly, "Won't I?"

Elrohir glanced at the wizard, remembering his words the last time the three of them sat together, like this. They were in Imaldris, and wearing their old robes in costume, and raiding the wine cabinets.

_Your hopes are dangerous, my young friend. You could wait a lifetime and end up with nothing at all. But we could not live without them, could we?_

"Sure," Elrohir breathed, praying like hell that he wasn't lying, "Sure."

" " "

Legolas was so far gone that he was seldom awake, and even more seldom alert. But as if the gods were giving him some form of grace, or his soul simply knew that it was time to leave the Earth he had loved so much and so long, he was both these things when the elven ship finally came.

Hands clasped his, warmly, assuring. Faces drifted over his field of vision; laughter and tears as only good friends knew to mix them. All around him, he heard goodbyes being made, and his heart swelled and strengthened with their wishes and their hopes. It struck him in that instant, that despite the circumstances, he felt insanely lucky.

_What were you thinking, when you thought you were about to die?_

It was the most beautiful day in all the histories of the world, making it look as if it were reborn. She was, after all, bidding the last of her firstborn farewell: the clouds were lined like neat firmaments stretching to the infinite. There was a clean straight line separating earth from sea and sky.

The sun was setting and shared the skies with the moon, that intersection of the end of the day and dusk. The winds picked up, but they were warm and welcoming. The waves were rising, but remained curved and white-capped, like hands that stretched, and held, and cradled. Flock after flock of gulls cried in triumph and release, soaring from the land, up to the skies, opening their wings and reaching for the stars.

The winds brought with them the smell of the forest, the smell of home. The smell of home reminded him of his mother's hair, the smooth strands that he used to play with. The scent of the woods reminded him of his father's robes, the ones he used to tug. He thought about his father's glacial eyes, sharing the color of a perfect, perfect sky.

The skies stretched out to forever on a clear day, a day like the ones that made the world feel so open and ripe for the taking by hungry young men, like the sea dogs he had once journeyed with over sea all over the world. Everything fascinated them, everything was an adventure. The first taste of chocolate, the first touch of silk. The unabashed gleam of gold and gems. The only things that could rival their sheer, shameless sheen was the smile of a beautiful woman with shining eyes. Especially when she laughs; she remains a breathless vision, even when she is laughing about your stolen kiss.

The waves were rising, slapping against the ship, splashing kisses of water on his skin. And suddenly he remembered the cool English rain, and the feel of the soil beneath his booted feet. He remembered dirt and grime to his fingernails, and the beautiful flowers and shrubs that these dirty fingers have helped make.

One thought lapsed into another, seamlessly at first, except he had so many that they eventually collided, and then exploded. _The world was in children's watercolor, and the sounds came in echoes, and he suspected that though there were people around him, he heard the sounds last._

The sensation was like getting hit by a car, getting hit by these realizations. All of his senses were involved, and nostalgic. The taste of coffee – _god_, he wanted coffee – the smell of the sea, the sound of the gulls and the chatter of friends, the bastard color of the day-night sky, the warm hand on his hand.

He remembered that his first goodbye did not hit him quite like this. Granted, he was much more focused on sailing the ship, and focused on amusing and assuring his companion Gimli, who was now, ironically enough, the one making assurances to him. Or maybe... maybe back then, somewhere deep within him, he knew he was still coming back. But now...

_Well_, he thought, _Just so._

_What were you thinking when you thought you were going to die...?_

_This life was a very interesting one, _he realized as he smiled to himself, _I bet the next one will be better._

If he could have laughed out loud he would have. He remembered Aragorn's face, and Gimli's, when it had been their turn, long, long ago.

_I'm not afraid._

He closed his eyes.

" " "

They pulled away from the shore in reverent silence.

_Bye-bye Earth_, Elrohir thought glumly, bitterly finding that everything looked better now that he was going away. He stood on the deck, where everybody was, even Legolas on his gurney, to bid the world farewell. Gimli, Aragorn and Arwen stood by him. Haldir stood with Celeborn and Galadriel, looking out over the sea. Celebrian sat next to Elladan, who was weeping soundlessly, his breathing unnervingly calm, as the tears fell to his cheeks, despite his closed, stoic expression. But he clutched her hand like his life depended on it, and she held tight right back. Elrohir stood between Elrond and Gandalf.

"Did you know this would happen?" Elrohir asked.

"There is no telling with a certainty about these things," said Elrond, "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," Elrohir said, with a sigh. He plucked the ultrasound photo from his pocket, and showed it to his father and the wizard, "Look. My nephews. Or nieces. Can't tell about the sex yet. I'm hoping for scrapping boys, just so we can get reckless together. When they turn twenty-one, maybe I can go back, just to show them the town."

Elrond looked at the photo and smiled.

"_Grandchildren_," he said, hungrily.

"Think they'll be all right?" Elrohir asked.

"They are genetically more human than elf," Gandalf said, "That, and kept from the knowledge and nurture of their immortal lineage, the part of them that is elven is like a vestigial organ- unused, un-cultivated. They likely won't find themselves un-dying at age two hundred and five and wondering what went wrong, if that's what you are asking."

"I think Elladan would want them to just be normal," said Elrohir, "That's safer, out there. I'd hate for them to never know us, though."

"Their mother will not allow that," Elrond said, "Besides, these two lucky children have inherited a wealth of the best foster-uncles anyone could want. Our friends will never let them see a dark day, mark my word."

Elrohir nodded, marginally comforted. He nodded out at the island, slowly becoming more and more small.

"It's quite pretty, isn't it?" Elrohir said, softly.

"Breathtaking," Elrond agreed.

" " "

The skies exploded in a burst of color and light, as the ship began to drift away. Merry and Pippin have vanished from the docks, and were either burning down the house or setting off fireworks in the distance, as a salute to their departing friends.

Sam, Frodo, Emmett, Eowyn, Faramir and Boromir stood on the deck, watching the elven ship sail away.

"That the present you had in mind for Gandalf?" Boromir asked, of the stunning fireworks.

"There's a memory attached to it," Frodo said with a tight smile, "As in all things, I suppose. I think, though, that Pippin and Merry will be much more careful, this time around."

"I miss them already," Eowyn sighed, wistfully, "Poor Ana. Poor Elladan. I think I will come visit her, tonight."

"We can all go," Emmett said, "She will find the distractions...invigorating. Besides, there are things I need to discuss with her."

"Really?" Eowyn asked.

"Some final things Elrohir advised me to handle," Eomer said, "That they were unable to take care of because of time constraint. Deeds to Imladris and quite a number of assets will be in her name, things like that. For her and the children, from their father."

"I feel very," Sam said suddenly, hesitating, and it skipped no one's notice that in another life, he once stood on a shore like this, watching the departure of his best friend, "I feel very sick to the heart."

_Speaking of needing invigorating distractions_, Frodo thought, remembering easily that that first scar had been caused by his own departure. _Well_, he resolved, _I think I owe you a salve to that hurt, old friend. Let me look after you, now._

"Sam," he said, "You know Pip was telling me about this classmate of his--"

TO BE CONCLUDED...

Hi gang!

I haven't been able to respond to c&c's as much as I would like, but please know that I read them and regard them as if my life depended on it; MASSIVE THANKS to all who bother to read and especially all who bother to share their thoughts and encouragements. I finished writing FEE3 in early December, and should be posting the epilogue and my standard afterword section in the next few days. The afterword, as always, will be including notes on the writing and responses to your questions. Thank you very very much and 'til the next post, which will be the last installment of the For Every Evil series. Wow! How weird, that I finally got to finish it after all these years haha. 'Til then!


	27. Epilogue: For Every Evil, and Afterword

Author: Mirrordance

Title: For Every Evil 3

Summary: For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. The secrets of the elves are revealed to the modern world, and they are forced to decide whether they should remain in a world unprepared for them, or be the last of their kind to leave it.

**Hey guys!**

Holy crap, who'd have thought it would all come to this...

The very very last chapter of a fic years in the making, several hunred thousand words long, and whole lot of heistations and experiments later, here we are!

I am weirdly sad and weirdly happy at the same time. There is one thing I do not doubt, though, that I am very thankful for everyone who gave me their time and effort and rode along with my wacky ideas and premises. The reading audience for LOTR fanfiction is extremely developed and sophistaicated and ultimately scary, haha... people feel very strongly about things and the level of canon knowledge is so pronounced. I know I must have broken a lot of rules and stepped outside of comfortable zones so thank you for your trust and your time. Anyway, without further ado, the final part of the FEE trilogy, and my usual rambling afterword. I hope you enjoy it!

" " "

EPILOGUE: For Every Evil

" " "

Valinor

" " "

_To: Fellowhip ElrohirSeriouslyRocks_

_Subject: How's Everybody_

Elrohir wrote it down out of habit, out of desire, _whatever_, he just did, because it felt right, even if the heading looked ridiculous, scrawled atop parchment in dark ink. His father had been right in saying technology was not a single-directional development. He came into Valinor expecting to be like that guy in Greek mythology who had introduced fire to man, and ended up feeling like the proverbial country-mouse-cousin instead. Still, there was something inextricably archaic about the elves, that made the idea of writing an e-mail heading on an elvish parchment quite irresistible and funny to him. And so he wrote:

_I'm not sure how much time has passed, but I'm betting it's been awhile. Of all the things that I brought, I forgot to bring a watch. I did, however, bring a cellphone. I was curious, if I could pick up a signal out here. It sounds insane, but then again you never know, really. Have you seen the movie _Frequency_? I got really confused but there's this guy with an old radio who can talk to his long-dead father on it. Have you seen _The Lake House_? Well I haven't either but they said there's this mailbox and... anyway, in case you were wondering, my service provider did not hold up against going past the Circles of the World. If they did, I _seriously_ would have found no qualms about going back over there and shamelessly advertising for them – _They have really, really, _really_ good coverage.

_Ow, my hand hurts. I guess I haven't handwritten anything in a long time. All this looks like chicken scratch. Speaking of chicken scratch writing, Legolas is, _tada_! still alive. The gamble paid off. He'll remember to thank us, eventually, once he, ah, remembers everything else..._

_The gods have a weird and wonderful sense of humor._

_He gave us a scare, many many times. He damn near-killed Estel with a heart attack when he 'left' and we thought he wasn't ever coming back. His heart stopped, and we tried and tried and tried to get him back, but he was gone. We were going to call it, I swear to god we were, and then suddenly Elladan – whom I must point out is also out of the woods and back in the world of the talking and living – bursts into the room, grabs the paddles of the defibrillator, maxes the thing out and very authoritatively zapped Legolas back into the world of the living. _

_'You're not doing this now,' he said, practically screaming, and I thought he had lost his mind, 'Not now, not after everything! This is nothing. This is easy. You're not doing this now, not after everything.'_

_You know Legolas, he thrives in guilt. So right on cue, that heart started up again and hasn't escaped us since. He slipped into a coma for a good while though, and we watched his body wilt. Months may have passed. I don't know. I wish I brought a watch, i said. But he chugged along somehow, and one day he kind of just opened his eyes, you know, pretty as you please, blinking up at us with his questions, as if nothing had happened and he was just waking up from a nap._

_Turns out, in his world at least, nothing _had_ happened. He recognized nothing and no one, did not know who he was and what he was doing there, but seemed willing to trust us. The memories will return, the healers said. We're in fricking Valinor, who's in a rush (I paraphrased this liberally)? In the meantime, everyone is just relieved he's on the mend. They said the amnesia was likely due to brain damage caused by his extended, nearly-lethal arrest. I didn't bother to tell them that Legolas has been brain-damaged for quite awhile now, and used to remember things just fine._

_Unfortunately for us, he retained his rebellious streak and regained his sense of humor. He is quite fun to talk to, and has taken up finding all sorts of novel ways to hide away from the admittedly stifling triumvirate of Estel, _Ada_, and his father the King Thranduil. The dwarf was always an unwilling accomplice, getting dragged, coerced and cajoled along while Haldir and I were like the police, always tasked to look for them. Elladan joined us too, after he took his head out of his ass and started living again and talking to people, instead of just burying his face behind that goodbye letter Ana gave him before we left, all the time._

_I think Legolas believes he should know us, and that is why his heart is light. But if he has remembered anything else, he doesn't show it, or speak of it. Like that first time he was deemed healthy enough to finally get a taste of that coveted Starbucks coffee. There was something that streaked across his eyes, I swear to god. A memory, perhaps, Montes' ghost, I don't know. He looked puzzled, and then amused. Whatever he was thinking of or, god forbid whatever he actually _remembered_, he just smiled and kept it to himself._

_I am starting to believe that this is a blessing, for one such as he. Legolas now has the chance at a real life, here. One that doesn't need to be hid, or invented, and assuredly one that will no longer be burdened by the past. I don't know. Maybe it's just me. _

_I kind of miss him being uptight, though, as it was always good fun to try and aggravate him. But he looks happy like this. We drop him hints of the past, here and there. It seems unfair to deprive him of knowing the kind of person that he was, because Legolas as we know him is... well he's _Legolas_, you know. His own category. He deserves to know. But if he remembers nothing and asks nothing else, we do not make any overt efforts to make him recall. Sure he's amnesiac, but hell, he's all right. He's happy. I'm inclined to believe that for some heroes, that is the reward. Normalcy, and an open future. The conflict has become interestingly reversed, this time. It was not too long ago that he struggled with making Aragorn and a few other people remember who they once were. Interesting, how things turn out. I just remembered that crazy thing Elladan was saying when he called Legolas back from the dead sounded just like what Legolas said to Boromir when he was shot, not too long ago._

_Anyway, I do not worry for him, anymore. The guy I do still worry for is my brother. Elladan was reclusive, and unbearably quiet, up until that scare Legolas put us through forced him off his rump and into the present. When he dragged Legolas back, he shocked himself back too, remembering other things that were important apart from the things he had lost. And then he started speaking openly to us again._

_One day, I found the guts to ask him what was in that letter Ana wrote to him. I bet on apologies and explanations. Who wouldn't? But Elladan said that was not the case at all. _

_"Why not?" I asked him._

_He said she knew that he understood why she did what she did. He said he fervently wished that _he_ did not understand why he was brought here against his will. He said he wished he could be angry for ever, instead of resigned. To be angry was to keep the book open, to keep the possibilities alive. To understand was just to know, and ultimately to own, because something deep inside you accepted, even if it did not agree. He said he understood, and it hurt more than any other external slight. He said she knew all this, and that was why the letter contained something else._

_"So what was it?" I asked, intrigued._

_He smiled at me tightly, and said that there were two very important sheets of paper in there. A marriage certificate – which she signed and left a space blank for his – and a divorce certificate, which she also signed and left a blank space for his. He said she left him a side note, telling him that it was hardly legally binding, but it was symbolic enough of the things they didn't get to do. She also said something like, 'Sign the first because you owe me, sign the second because finding someone else is not only accepted, but encouraged.'_

_He looked skeptical about that last bit, but as always, he found her amusing and slightly insane. And then the conversation took on a heavy note, since any remembrance of the beauty and brilliance of her ultimately goes to the fact that they were not together._

_So that day, I also found the guts to ask him that other thing I've been worrying about. I gulped, and crossed my fingers behind my back. I asked him if he was conceiving any sort of plan to go away and go back._

_"Not... yet," he had said, "I understand why I have to be here, I said. So I won't."_

_I took it for what it was. I clung to it like a drowning man, but you can bet he goes nowhere without my knowledge. I have my eye on him. That's because I think I have it all figured out, now. _

_For every evil that rises, we are given ways to fight it. Or... in the absence of a fight, we are given each other to weather it. We're a bunch of survivors here, that's what we are. Not quite victorious, but then again, there hadn't really been a war. And yet we were fighting something... maybe ourselves, and the alone-ness that permeated each of us before we somehow found each other, ultimately found ourselves. I think of Legolas, when I think of that. And then I think of Elladan... His eyes are hungry. He'll find his way back there, back to the world, eventually, and maybe this whole thing will begin all over again. I don't know. What I do know is that he won't be alone. None of us will be ever again._

Elrohir rolled up the parchment, shoved it in a slim, green bottle, and threw it out as hard as he could toward the sea.

_Your message has been sent_, he thought, wistfully.

" " "

The Circles of the World

" " "

It became just one more mystery in a litany of mysteries that already plagued the world. _Plague_... perhaps that was too strong a word, too threatening. _Occupied_, seemed more fair. Who killed JFK, Is Elvis alive, Was Marilyn Monroe murdered, Are there aliens, Is there a God...

No one ever found out whatever happened to Leland Greene, and after awhile, it became a cold, unsolved case. Books and TV shows and ridiculous movie adaptations came out. Conspiracy theories abound. The remnants of the Fellowship read and heard and saw them all. Many of them were fairly funny.

Anatalia Craxi's pregnancy was not a secret for long. She took that leave from work at last, and retreated away from the public eye. It was the rest she needed, and an escape from the world's interest in her, stemming from the life she had always lived, intensified by the Leland Greene interview. For awhile, there was a silly rumor spreading that the children were Greene's, or that they belonged to that missing Austrian friend of his. These rumors were quickly dismissed, however, when a more ideal scenario began to be formed by the public: Emmett Rigare has been linked to her for awhile now, and records and witnesses have confirmed that even before the Leland Greene interview, Emmett Rigare was a presence in the hospital by her side, in both Italy and France. Leland Greene on the other hand, was not, and neither was his Austrian friend. In the interest of protecting the secrets of the children, the parties involved did not bother to correct this assumption. They neither confirmed nor denied. But they did say that Anatalia's relationship with the 'missing elves' was strictly platonic; she bought Elladan Peredhil's estate and antiques, and that was the extent of her relationship and friendship with them.

Brad Greer moved to Europe, where his brother and most of his friends were based. He felt safer there, and they felt relieved to be having him around. He worked as a professor in a top-rated college, where among his students belonged Mark Brandy and Pip Took. The hobbits went to their universities debt-free thanks to a fund set up by Leland Greene, with more than enough cash to spare for their other wants and needs and occasional vices.

Fred Greer and Eunice Rigare continued on with their works in charities. Rafael Montes sent his children to the best schools with what he had come to dub as the Frigging Leland Greene Education Fund. He and his boss the station captain, who was by now as hard to please as he was about finding a replacement for Leland, slashed through eight profoundly inadequate new detectives to stand for Greene, before they found a remotely viable one. The rookie was not doing too badly with the tests thrown his way.

_The world was moving, and shifting, and righting itself up again_, the way it always has. It limped along, somehow, toward the rest of its future.

Anatalia Craxi gave birth to twins – one a boy, and the other a girl. She thought it was such a gracious and unexpected blessing. She named the boy Antonio for herself, and the girl Daniella in honor of Elladan. She never found the heart to write about that book on Leland Greene and the elves that she once planned to write, what felt like eons ago. But then again, few things ever worked out according to how you plan them. She did, however, produce an award-winning documentary on how people viewed the ultimately bizarre and unsolved Leland Greene episode in the world's history. The work was not so much about elves, but about _people_. The Leland Greene incident was a microcosm of the desires of the world – what it wants, what it dreams, and the things it was willing to do to attain these things.

_In the hidden crevices of the human heart, they just want to know about... a story. All these ideas – elves and fairies and immortal lives, gods and heavens - they all remind us that we are all still children, that we always have been deep inside, listening to a tale that helps us dream._

She found no trouble resting on her laurels after that. She retired, and focused on managing her considerable estate and the care of her children, who were of course, determined to be a handful, especially since their grandfather had the terrible habit of giving them everything that they asked for. Her favorite visitor / babysitter was Pip Took, who was a surprisingly stern and disciplined foster-uncle to the twins. In afterthought, it should have been expected, since he already knew all the tricks in the proverbial book, if he did not in fact _write_ them.

And so life went on, in a manner that was unbelievably ordinary. As someoneor other once said, quite simply, _If all that we want is a story, then this is how this one ends_.

THE END

December 2, 2007

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**AFTERWORD**

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Hi gang! For those who are interested, below you will find the method of the madness, if you will :) Many questions posed in reviews are also addressed below. I used to answer concerns and queries on posts but I guess I just felt the mad itch to finish the story first and just kept posting, so I hope you'll have the patience to look through the afterword and find some of the answers you seek. If not, you can always drop me a personal message or e-mail.

I've been doing this afterword thing for awhile, and I feel like it just keeps getting longer and longer after every fic I write haha, but it's received fairly well, so here's another one. Besides, it helps me gather my thoughts when I write (because I write the afterword concurrently with the end of a fic; I know I'm just about done with a story whenever I begin to write the afterword), it reminds me of elements that are important, or possible holes that I may have missed. Anyway, here are the contents:

I. The Ending, an Alternate Ending and "Feequels"

II. For Every Evil in the FEE Trilogy

III. Recurring Themes

IV. Depiction of Modern Society and the Villain of FEE3

V. Characterizations of Note

VI. Musical Inspiration

VII. Other References

VIII. Massive Thanks and Replies

IX. Art and Translations of For Every Evil

X. The Next Project: "Kingdom Come"

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**I. The Ending, an Alternate Ending and "Feequels..."**

The ending has several important and fairly debatable elements: (a) Why the elves had to leave; (b) Why Anatalia had to stay; and (c) Why Legolas lost his memory.

A. Why the Elves had to Leave

Pippin's statement about the ending of this fic, from "Chapter 19: Memento Mori" seriously emphasizes how I feel about the ending of this story. For the elves to be forced to leave felt unfair and ungrateful and unbearably sad! I had such a hard time, getting to that point of the story. I don't know if that "stuck-ness" was evident in the way the story progressed, like, I felt that over and over, it had to be said why they had to leave: by Galadriel to Haldir, by the two of them to the people in Imladris, by Ana to Aragorn, by Elrohir to Legolas, by Elrond to Elladan... it was almost as if it was something that I had to keep reminding myself of: this simply has to be done, and I guess I just felt so bad about it, haha. In terms of writing, the author's empathy is supposed to help, but I hope I didn't make a whole lot of you impatient, thinking, _Yeah, we get it already, they gotta leave, we get it!_

B. Why Anatalia had to Stay, an Alternate Ending in a Nutshell, and "Feequels"

I always say that my inspiration for writing stories are striking scenes and lines that I build a story around, just so I can get to that point. One of the two driving scenes of FEE3 can be found in "Chapter 24: Marooned." The part where Elladan embraces his wife-to-be while they have their goodbye sleep is one of the reasons why FEE3 was written. Along the course of writing the story, however, I started to hesitate about whether or not it was important for Ana to be left behind in the first place and if the conflict will fit in with the rest of the story at all. This meant that I was already examining the viability of a much more victorious ending, where Ana gets to go with Elladan and the others to Valinor. Still... I felt it was (1) almost unjust not to use the scene that partially created FEE3 and (2) I had dropped hints all across the story that the pregnancy was a difficult one. To eliminate the major effects of that was like making those parts almost useless; and those who have read my stories before know how important it is for me for everything in a story to have a purpose. Like I must have quoted in afterwords before, gun in act one means body in act three, right? And so the ending turned sour and unhappy (in my usual fashion, haha). I think I also liked the circular feeling of it, that the ending could still be another beginning, as noted by Elrohir in "Epilogue: For Every Evil:"

_His eyes are hungry. He'll find his way back there, eventually, and maybe this whole thing will begin all over again. I don't know. What I do know is that he won't be alone. None of us will be ever again._

On a more practical standpoint, I guess I also wanted Elladan's kids to stay in Middle-Earth because I wanted Imladris to be owned by Peredhils still and that's one way of making it happen. I think I tackled that in a previous story, "Love, War (not my most popular fic but I have a feeling it's my favorite)." In "Love, War," Legolas agrees to an arranged marriage with a mortal and justifies it by saying that even when the elves sail away, mortals with their blood will still be reigning their kingdom.

Also, speaking of beginnings, I felt all right about ending FEE3 with one because it just leaves a lot of possibilities open. I'm not sure if I've discussed this before, but I have come to call these possibilities as "feequels" in my head. You can easily dream up events that happened before FEE (I have dabbled with the idea of writing a fic about the twins' involvement in the resistance in occupied Vienna during World War II to match FEE3's "Chapter Ten: Black Sheep"), or after it (I have also toggled with the idea of Elladan coming back to a post-apocalyptic, sci-fi-ish story and meeting his immortal, embittered daughter, whose mother and twin has already died; I've been told I come up with crazy ideas but this one was just too wild even for me, haha).

Anyway, none of these are serious, really. The important thing is, if I could just have FEE achieve one objective, I want it to take the floor from underneath those who read it, and make the world feel larger, and infinite. I want it to make people think of possibilities. I guess that's what all writers would want of anything they make really, and it's a lofty ambition, but it is what it is, haha. As Ana said in "Chapter 21: Fairy Tales:"

_"...in the hidden crevices of the human heart, they just want to know about... a story. All these ideas – elves and fairies and immortal lives, gods and heavens - they all remind us that we are all still children, that we always have been deep inside, listening to a tale that helps us dream."_

C. Why Legolas Lost His Memory, and Another Alternate Ending in a Nutshell

Can we say take him out of his misery, haha. I guess i knocked out his memory because I wanted a clean slate. Maybe I owe him one after all this torture, haha. Odd thing is... Montes was right when he said Leland Greene probably won't remember him; but in all fairness, he didn't remember anybody, haha. Should he have retained his memories? I'm as mixed up about it as I depicted Elrohir here to be. It feels like a blessing, to have a fresh start, at any rate. In the end, I gave him a mischievous naivete, something more alive and youthful. I guess it's to emphasize the 'beginning-ness' of this ending. I also loved the irony of him having to be reminded of his past, something that he was doing for others before in FEE1. The alternate endings for this one were (1) Kill him outright – tempting, but it just felt too angsty and misplaced in the series. I like thinking that FEE has a touch of naivete and positivity, which would have been countermanded by that; (2) Kill him and then reincarnate him, haha, but just because I liked the irony doesn't mean it has a place either; and (3) Just put him there and leave him alone, which I also changed because it still felt inalienably sad to me. So I guess I came up with an amnesiac Legolas as a kind of middle-ground to all these.

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**II. For Every Evil 3 in the FEE Trilogy**

I guess I have to keep explaining this part, because I have been told a few times that FEE is so detached from Lord of the Rings, and I would just feel terrible if that were the case, haha.

Anyway, FEE1 is the transition from the Lord of the Rings as it is known, which is why it emphasized parallelisms and quoted the movies and stuff like that. FEE2 is my junk food, haha, a personal indulgence that was also a vehicle for emphasizing the modernity of the setting. FEE1 is like saying, "Yeah, the Felowship is here" and FEE2 is describing what "here" is, and what that means to our characters and what that means to the world. It also sets the stage for the conflict to come in FEE3. FEE3 in the series is the closing of an era. As Haldir said in "Chapter 19: Memento Mori," the elves are closing their past.

Arayelle Lynn, one of the most perceptive reviewers of the FEE series, said that FEE1 is the past, FEE2 is the present, and FEE3 is the future. I couldn't agree more, and I doubt I could have phrased it more clearly haha. I thank her very much for sharing her incredibly accurate observations and enlightening thoughts (More thanks and notes on reviews below).

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**III. Recurring Themes**

A. The Complacency of Paradise

This is a dangerous, dangerous concept for me, haha. I guess in fiction, I have an aversion to stasis, even the stasis of a theoretical paradise. In real life, I'm pretty sure I won't mind though, haha. I got the inspiration for this the way Waitress Jackie did – in the shower, haha! It is so easy to be afraid of complacency just because we are comfortable. It's kind of like _The Matrix_, I guess, where we are given comfortable illusions while at the same time, life passes you by. I'm not saying that paradise will be boring or what. I am saying though, that it can be feared too, and that is a quirky kind of thing to think about.

B. People Love a Good Story

I'm wondering if you all caught my medium-is-the-message thing again, haha. All my afterwords must have mentioned this technique, haha, but anyway, this is my favorite theme of FEE3, and for life in general. People are just innately interested in the lives of other people. Everyone is interesting. Everyone just simply has a story to tell. Truths and lies are equally intriguing, and so easy to believe. This was emphasized all throughout the For Every Evil series, and is especially marked in FEE3. In "Chapters 6: Sea Dog and 21: Fairy Tales," it can be noted that people are always ready to believe and even create lies if it is sold well. I'm hoping you find my fiction as convincing as the people found Legolas' lies, haha.

C. Boring and Ordinary

FEE 2 emphasized that the world is not heavily reliant on the Fellowship anymore. I mentioned this in the afterword to that very emphatically. I guess it was laying the groundwork for FEE3 in that aspect also, as it allows them to leave the world free of responsibilities save toward each other. These are people who are just trying to live normal, quiet lives. From an external perspective like Waitress Jackie's though, I guess that didn't work out for them because extraordinary people shouldn't be dreaming about being ordinary.

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**IV. Depiction of Modern Society, and the Villain of FEE3**

In Ziggy's review, I was totally bowled over by the statement 'The world stands astonished and greedy,' and I felt that it perfectly encapsulated my idea of how the world would react if this kind of a situation happened in real life. I tried to make this angle as rich as I possibly could, because I found it so exciting and possible. The accessibility of an idea is what makes a modern-LOTR fic such an exciting genre. Suddenly, you walk to a Starbucks and think of Leland Greene, or as someone once told me, you look at the e-mail threads and are tempted to write to it. I needed authenticity of the modern to be depicted and this meant that present issues had to be raised.

These issues involved political conspiracies, terrorism, economics, medicine, religion, law, finance, celebrity... even quirky human interest, like people claiming to be pregnant by Leland Greene, are all touches of modernity that I was very giddy about portraying.

The thing about this fic, in this whole series if you think about it, is the absence of a villain. I dabbled with the thought of exploring a villain, I really did, but I simply could not give it a face. This is best illustrated in two chapters. In "Chapter 16: Smoke," Legolas realizes that when he thought, _I have no enemies_. This was also mentioned by Aragorn to Rafael Montes in Chapter 7: Break," when he said that the investigation was useless, there's too many people with a motive and opportunity, and that the best they can do was to be with Legolas, rather than finding out who had hurt him. I guess in instances where people are desperate, or desperately intrigued as they are in this story, no one is truly evil really, just misled. If you think about it, that faceless 'villain' technically included one of our protagonists too: Rafael Montes, and he was still a good guy.

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**V. Characterizations of Note**

A. Legolas' Incarnations and Histories

For Every Evil 3's 'side story' is the building of a character named "Leland Greene." When I was writing FEE's 1 and 2, I think I have taken for granted the painfully long journey that got him to where he was. As Eve noted in her review, reading modern pieces makes us forget what the characters went through to be where they were. I know I did, haha.

When I started writing FEE, I was simply intrigued by the challenges posed by writing a believable modern-day LOTR fic. It was just an indulgence, really; I'll write about these fabulous characters doing modern things. It felt like a flight of fancy. And then suddenly I'm in FEE3 thinking, these guys have paid a lot to be here, and it was almost irreverent to ignore the road that led to their current state. When I wrote the summaries regarding FEE's 2 and 3 in the Afterword of FEE1, I never, ever thought I would be writing all these back stories. But everyone bows to the plot bunnies and listens to the muses and the story unfolded while not differently, more meaningfully. I think I ended up enjoying the historical chapters more; many of you may have noticed the fact that these chapters seem to be longer and more indulgent than the others, haha. Also, as everyone knows by now, Legolas is my favorite character. The back stories really explored how I imagined he could grow.

**Legolas Greenleaf in the Elizabethan Age **

This was a surprise to me too, haha. So, what in the world happened in this chapter? Well, the thing about Legolas Greenleaf - according to canon - that is most notable post-fellowship would be (1) his leadership as a lord in a kingdom and (2) his friendship with the unlikely dwarf. The Legolas that appeared in this timeline should therefore reflect how he was when we last ran into him (that is, after the books ended). So that was the Legolas I tried to portray when he returned to the circles of the world: the regal prince, and the devastated guy who had lost a friend. We can see this in his high-handed treatment of Davenport after they meet, and his reason for going back to the circles of the world. I picked the Elizabethan-era because it is a time of unabashed royalty, a golden age of royalty- what better time for an immortal prince to appear? Also, when I was writing FEE1, I just needed him to be found by an explorer of some kind out at sea. Imagine my luck and delight when, upon closer inspection, the year that I had put for Legolas' return in FEE1 coincided with the Elizabethan age of exploration. I was thrilled at the coincidence and felt I really had to bring him to England to make that era and his personality shine. So that is what happened here and why.

My defining Legolas Greenleaf of the Elizabethan age scene, the one that just shows who he is at this point in time would be that first time he met with Elizabeth; he did not bow low, and did not do so even after she pointed it out. I like thinking that it's his nature to be royal and defiant.

Also, if you are wondering about an Elizabethan benchmark, I look to the great Helen Mirren for inspiration, as captured by the HBO mini-series "Elizabeth" with Jeremy Irons and Hugh Dancy. She is an exceptional actress and she bowls me over every time! The idea that the heart is the hardest thing to govern also came from this series.

**"Greenleaf Jr." in Paris**

This incarnation of Legolas is the jaded, self-centered and aimless version, picking up from the prince with the royal temper of the first flashback, who is thereafter met by constant disappointment. Note, even the location is evocative of some recklessness: a ball in intoxicating Paris! He's hit a rough patch at this point, with the realization that the world was not the same and that he had no place in it. It made him a bit more bitter, and a bit more cruel. He was also very clumsy about handling the awkwardness of having to hide his immortality, which was a necessity new to him at the time. I mean, what he had done was so simple: pretend you're your own son. He didn't even change his name or his look. He was also very awkward about handling Luisa Davenport's perception, and was easily made uncomfortable by Luisa's daughter, the man on display, and the sharp eye of Redknapp. This is where he also gets shaken up enough such that he comes to a decision, and a more defined role and mission: the protection of the Davenport family.

The defining "Jr." scene would be Legolas walking around the man on display. It just shows greater self-awareness of how different he is and what his place is in the world.

**Hauptmann Grunwald / Lane Garrett**

There were three instant giveaways that should have tipped people to the fact that Legolas was the Nazi captain Lukas Grunwald even before it was revealed along the course of the chapter. (1) the initials "LG" was a constant, ever since FEE1; (2) it should not have been a surprise that he could speak German since in the previous flashbacks, it has been noted that Greenleaf had gone to the Germanic territories in the entourage of a Davenport and (3) the etymology of the last name is supposed to be green forest.

Anyway, that aside... The last time we saw the developing character, he was a man on a mission to look after the Davenport family. This flashback glosses over some highlights of that role, which he apparently kept up for years and years. This flashback emphasizes his weariness with these tasks, and how incomplete it still left him, because he suddenly came to realize that he personally found nothing important, not even his own life. I loved it, how he was cocky enough to feel indignant about dying, and at the same time, insecure enough to be disappointed that he was spared.

The defining Hauptmann Grunwald scene would be the flinch/reaction to the empty barrel from Russian Roulette. It just makes him appear both semi-invincible and also human.

**The Prince / Lane Garrett**

The very damaged Lane Garrett continues on to life into the English countryside in this pensive little chapter. His mounting despair in the previous flashback turns to all out defeat in "The Prince." This chapter covers my favorite, archetypal characterization of Legolas: the wounded warrior. Francine tells him he looks like a winner, but that even winners can get wounds also. The dichotomy of strength and vulnerability is just so compelling to me. This idea was inspired by a spiritual/religious song called "The Warrior is a Child" by Twila Paris. Some of the stunning words:

_They don't know that I go running home when I fall down_

_They don't know who picks me up when no one is around_

_I drop my sword and cry for just awhile_

_'Cause deep inside this armor_

_The warrior is a child._

Now this chapter is a very important one to the story, primarily by virtue of the lines quoted from Emerson and de Saint-Exupery. This is because:

1. They hint at the ending. The Prince departs in "The Little Prince" too, although infinitely more sadly; and

2. Francine Davenport's garden philosophy mirrors the overwall theme of "For Every Evil," which is pretty much existential. I mean, FEE1 says that there is no real, reincarnated evil, all we have anew is a chance to live out our lives and be who we can and want to be. FEE2 doesn't have the same level of spirituality, it was my FEE junk food – yummy, necessary and fun but not too profound – so we won't get into that, haha. And then FEE3 just closes everything up, closes up the contributions of a life by bringing Legolas back ironically to where he began, bearing fairly vague achievements. What was the point of a long, crazy life that brings you back to the beginning anyway? The journey, the idea of life simply unfolding itself.

Plot-wise, this chapter is also important because it gives our hero a fresh chance to assert himself. It pretty much asks him: when you stand alone, who will you be?

My favorite, defining Lane Garrett scene is of course, the scene at the cemetery. It just shows the kind of life he had led so far and what it has done to him.

**Leland Greene**

In one of Lois McMaster Bujold's works (I've read so many of them so many times that I forget which one), her central character, the lovable Miles, says that he had always been what he chose to be, though not always what he wanted to be. The same held true for Legolas in FEE3 (this was also quoted in Chapter 21: Fairy Tales): he always chose to look after the Davenports, chose his identities around their lives. And then he was left alone, and he started to think about what he wanted to be, or more precisely, who he wanted to be, which was of course, a very different matter altogether. This resulted in becoming Leland Greene, who is an agglomeration of our traditional Legolas – quick-witted, regal, honorable and impossibly skilled – and what he had become after being all those other identities: mysterious, uncertain, and lonely. I worked really hard to make Leland Greene plausible, likable and most importantly, familiar to fans of Legolas. The Leland Greene character had to be worthy of our hero's choice. He had to be the kind of man that many people would like him to be.

My favorite Leland Greene scene, and for this I just had to look across all of the scenes I ever wrote him in the entire FEE series, is the one where he frees himself from the wrist restraints near the end of FEE2. Like I said before, he embodies ability, mystery and also a quiet sort of menace.

B. Haldir / Harding

I'd love to say I did it on purpose but I guess it's just something I realized suddenly: why is it that the elves find themselves confiding in Harding / Haldir about their plans to sail away? In FEE1, Legolas discusses it with him before he tells anybody else. In FEE3, it is Galadriel who does so. What made me feel that he is the appropriate confidante for such a decision?

This is open to debate, of course, but in afterthought, it might have been the wise decision to have these discussions with Harding because he is the only being, of all the characters, who can truly claim to know what it is like to be both an elf and a mortal. Presumably, having been in both incarnations, he should have a unique understanding of movement of the world, and the place of mortals and immortals within it. That perception, and the ease by which Harding / Haldir seemed to move in whichever circle is a very integral part of the character. He seemed to have these traits in the lovely depiction in the movie, and I hope it comes off here too.

C. Elrohir

I enjoyed very much the work done on Elrohir on this piece. Again, it must be emphasized that his characterization is pretty much just based on a whole lot of guesswork, and I'm hoping that the readers of FEE feel a greater connection to him, as I have with reading other fanfiction regarding the twins, as this seems the only avenue to do that, what with the admittedly scarce, official resources out there.

I'm sure it escaped very little of you that FEE3 became almost as large a journey for Elrohir as it was for my favorite Legolas. It just happened, really, and since many of you are familiar with my desire for order, I am sorry to say that most of the things that happened to Elrohir on this fic were pretty random, haha. I tried to think about why I would do that, but when I couldn't find a decent answer, I just kept writing until it just struck me: again, the medium is the message (or maybe it's just hindsight bias). Particularly with the conversations at the diner, Elrohir was my experiment in just _being_. He relished that same feeling in "Chapter 13: Threshold:"

_There was something very existential about flirting with a loose-canon waitress over free coffee in an American diner on a random day. He wasn't sure why, but he was glad they were having this useless, surreal little conversation. It was making him feel as if his problems were getting smaller and smaller._

I guess I found a profound need for ordinary, everyday interactions to be found in this fic to ground it more firmly, and for it to feel accessible. Ordinariness is so underrated, but it's so integral to the appreciation of life here. And living here is what makes it so hard for the elves to leave. I guess in the end, the "useless, surreal little conversations" have carved their own little place of importance that way, and Elrohir became the primary vehicle for that.

D. Elladan and Anatalia

Lovebirds can be such drags, haha. I guess people who have read the things I've written know that the only acceptable sap for me are those that end in tragedy, haha... I was very, very scared about this, but I guess somehow they fit into how I've perceived FEE to be. Strange, though, how my biggest gamble (which is, as I've mentioned in afterwords prior to this one, the original character Ana Craxi) that the most popular story I've written begins and ends with her. I guess it's fairly appropriate. I just didn't expect it! As always, I hope she, and all my other OC's weren't too annoying or overbearing. I can easily imagine how an original character in any form of fanfitcion can seem imposing and meddlesome. I made a conscious effort in limiting her exposure in a fair and realistic manner that enriches my character and at the same time respects the boundaries and considerable preferences of the readers. I hope it came across :)

E. Gimli, Aragorn and Montes

It's pretty strange how the same being can be friends with such different people, at least, as different as Gimli, Aragorn and Montes are. I guess that's because I like writing a multi-faceted Legolas also, and so he is changed by his company. Between him and Montes, Legolas becomes the calm, straight-arrow, serious worker. He loosens up a bit with Aragorn, whom I've always believed seemed most 'at pace' with him; they can take turns getting into trouble and getting each other out of them. And then he just goes crazy with Gimli, who unleashes his more petty side. Most of my fics have always centered around the dynamics of the relationship between Aragorn and Legolas. As I said, I felt that there was something very similar about them, so I guess I'm surprised at myself, looking back now, that I have somehow not-written in as much of Aragorn as usual. Even FEE1 and FEE2 had a fair load of him, but FEE3 just focused on a whole bunch of other things, I guess, haha. I like throwing him and Montes together though, as I did for a few key scenes in FEE3. I guess if we're making an effort for an original character to be likable and "fitting" in a universe, he has to get along not just with one canon character but with others.

F. The Lorien Elves, Gandalf, Elrond and Marcelo Craxi

Their presence kind of mysteriously vanished for me in this fic. Gandalf, for one, was a gigantic presence and shaper of events in FEE1. And when I brought the elves back into the circles of the world for FEE2 and FEE3, I had all these plans of a more massive role. For instance, one of my most favorite scenes in this series was the conversation between Legolas and Elrohir after Legolas was rescued. When I was starting FEE3, this line:

_"You've lived so long you've forgotten how," Elrohir said, emphatically, "And how precious it can be. Your life, this time, mellon-nin. Your life. There has to be a balance, between giving and receiving-- you have to be willing to share what you have, and at the same time, have the humility to trust that others can fend for themselves, and eventually help even one such as you."_

Originally belonged to Gandalf, not to Elrohir. But as we all know, not everything goes according to plan, haha. Elrohir's role enlarged in a way that I did not expect, while others' shrank. As for the other elves, I guess I did not feel that I "knew" them well enough to write about them. I planned to, but then I just didn't feel very confident. I guess you can say that this is what I've always felt about Arwen, whom I seldom ever write about.

Of the bunch, the most I've written for FEE would have to be Lord Elrond. I guess this is because his conflict is so interesting, his children falling in love with mortals. I thought it would be intriguing to rehash that conflict and play with how he would deal with it the second time around.

G. On the Characters You Might Have Been Looking For More Of

And so pretty much those people who did not regain their memories in FEE1 remained 'asleep' all through FEE3. I know I've said this before, haha, but I guess I have to say again that the story is complex enough without having to add ideas that aren't necessarily needed within the plot. The awakening of Sam, Merry and Eomer have therefore been relegated to the open future, haha. Besides, I guess when Pippin and Frodo were talking about this same issue, my own thoughts came out:

_"They have not reclaimed themselves yet," Frodo said, mildly, "It bothers you."_

_Pippin shrugged, "I guess. Although I'm trying to figure out why. I feel the same way about them really, I treat them the same, because I know they're the same, I know it, in a way that I cannot ever doubt. I'm trying to understand why it's important for them to remember."_

_"It's just one of those things, I guess," Frodo shrugged, "Like asking a bloke if he ever saw this movie you're dying to talk about and then he just says 'Sorry, no.'"_

It's not so important really, but it's just one of those things that we wished would happen :) Ultimately though, Pippin says he's okay with his friends not reclaiming their past memories and well, haha, so am I :)

H. The Davenports

**Davie**

So it all began with a certain Mister Davenport. The archetypal character I was going for with him is the traditional wise, old sailor – he is adventurous but not reckless. He is educated but also, as can be noted, a believer in supernatural things. He is a man of quiet dignity. His personality is not a big, encompassing one but rather, a quiet, unobtrusive but open-hearted one. He has a generous and loving spirit, something that needed to be conveyed if Legolas were ever to feel any sense of duty toward him. Like how "Leland Greene" needed to be worthy of our favorite elf's ambitions, Davie had to be worthy of the word Legolas had given him. We needed the traditional form of a good man, and I guess Davenport is what came out for me.

**Luisa and the Curse of the Legomance**

Ah, that dangerous, dangerous term. I've had at least one certain disappointed reader walking-out because of this. People have been wondering for awhile when I would test the waters with a legomance and Luisa is the result of that little experiment. There are gigantic cliches to an original female character, and I felt that they can only be breached if we stop pretending that they don't exist. So I decided I would push it to the extreme. The OFC will be drop-dead gorgeous. Everyone will want her, but she is flighty and ambitious and will want only that which she should not have. I even have her singing, like a proper attention-hungry OC. These are all red flags crying for her to be disliked, as I was certain she would be anyway, even if the characterization were tamer. Then I decided I would flip all these assumptions over on its head – along the course of the story, it is revealed that (1) she loved him more than he loved her; and (2) she is old! How could anyone hate an ailing, old woman, guys, come on, haha. This is not just a romance, it's a tragedy, and a very eye-opening one for the elf. As I said before, while I try fresh angles out because they are interesting to me, everything in FEE has a place, and this romance was used as a tool to drive home the point that an immortal elf is out of place in society.

As a footnote, I was listening to "Think of Me" from _The Phantom of the Opera_ when I was struck with the idea of twisting this romance around for FEE. Particularly, the words below struck a nerve:

_We never said our love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea..._

_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons so do we..._

And of course, when Luisa asks him to think of her, that too was a salute to this wonderful Broadway piece.

While the idea of using it for FEE was new, the idea itself has been alive to me for a good while. For years now, I've had a story entitled "Second Act" which I never had the guts to post. I think I've discussed this before but anyway, it was about Legolas and a mortal woman he had loved in youth, running into each other at a ball now that she is an aging grandmother-type. It was called second act because there's presumably a first – the story does start after they have already broken up, and because she was a stage actress. The setting for "Second Act" was Middle-Earth so she knew he was an elf. But anyway, I can't find that story now, and Legolas' interaction with the older Luisa Davenport in Chapter 9: Believer, stems from that story.

**Danny the Black Sheep**

One of the FEE3's most popular chapters was the one that featured Daniel Davenport. I guess as an audience, we still find stronger characterization in imperfection. I loved making him flawed; it made the redemption harder, but sweeter. Some may notice that this chapter of the story was highly influenced by the film _Hart's War_. The tightness of a POW camp is so intriguing, it creates a strange world that is both at the center of a larger conflict, but also profoundly detached from it.

**Francine at the End**

Legolas' promise began with a traditionally wise man, so I thought I'd end it with a traditionally wise woman. She is also my salute to the brave wives and mothers of our war heroes and soldiers. If Davie had to be worth the promise, she had to be believable in the release from it.

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**VI. Musical Inspiration**

Music is a huge source of inspiration for me. Anytime the well feels like it's drying up, haha, I turn the music on and it's like I'm recharged. In particular, for FEE3, the following must be paid attention to, in order to maximize that sweeping, indulgent, movie-like feeling that I always try to capture whenever I write:

a. **"To The Stars" by Randy Edelman**, an instrumental piece from the film "Dragonheart," which has also been used in just a host of trailers for other epic adventure films. If you listen to it, I'm sure you'll find it familiar and beautiful. It might even be one of those songs you've always wanted to find. It just feels so large, and ambitious. It really does capture the feeling of reaching for the stars. In FEE3, that broad-ness, that reach is very important. I just want to convey that feeling of the large-ness of the world, and the adventure of a life.

b. **"The Departure" by Michael Nyman**, for the film "Gattaca" is so forlorn and beautiful that it captures the spirit of loss and at the same time, the unquenchable adventure of any journey. "To the Stars" conveys the idea of reach – what lies beyond. "The Departure" emphasizes that there are things that will be left behind as we reach. The duality is fascinating and appropriate to the story. I am a huge fan of this guy; he scored a lot of other movies with just a killing, heart wrenching sound.

c. **"Dante's Prayer" by Loreena McKennit** is a song I picked up from watching a very pensive video of Legolas in YouTube. I think it's a pretty popular video, you'd likely have seen it already. I gave the words a listen and felt they fit:

_Cast your eyes on the ocean_

_Cast your soul to the sea_

_When the dark night seems endless_

_Please remember me_

And these are only the words in the chorus alone! The rest of the track is so fitting lyrically, and even structurally. The tune is haunting and it should easily remind any fan of the movies of the invoked spirituality and new age-ness of the 'pop' tracks from the movie trilogy.

If you want a fuller experience of FEE3, please give these songs a listen. These are the songs that moved me to write, and the songs I imagined hearing along the course of the story, especially along the end.

Less serious songs you may also want to listen to were those loosely discussed in Elrohir's memories on Chapter 3, "Boring and Ordinary." As I said, I get inspired by music, and obviously from a wide range of genres. The songs he mentioned here, "Be My Number Two" by Joe Jackson and "The First Time I Loved Forever" are some actual classic 80's-era ballads. I also like to think that the disco track in Elrohir's cellphone is "Love Machine." Though it hadn't at all been obscure, it has a campy charm that I found really appropriate :)

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**VII. Other References**

Many cultural references have been made along the course of the entire _For Every Evil_ series. I've touched on television, film, business, fads like boy bands and Beanie Babies, Starbucks, philosophy, literature, etc. But the very heart and the very vein of the story is not directly attributed, and once again, I do so here in my afterword.

Sci-fi writer Lois McMaster Bujold's 'accessible wisdom' has always been very influential to me. I like inputting the things she has written that just struck me, but she's written so many that I loved such that I can't remember the exact statement or from which book it came from, so I just always have the characters saying "I read somewhere that..."

In FEE3, it's Legolas' statement saying that he's always been what he chose, though not always what he wanted. In FEE2, it's that reputation is what others think of you and honor is what you know about yourself. In _Love, War_ it's that the one thing you can't give for your heart's desire is your heart thing. Even the very name I had taken upon in writing, Mirrordance, is the title of one of her books. I'm sure there's a little bit more here and there, I'm just writing what immediately comes to mind. Anyway, please look up her Vorkosigan saga (I haven't read her other series). Her work is amazing and I always wished to have the tone she adapts in writing and the wisdom she somehow shares in between the adventure and the humor. She is a very gifted person :)

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**VIII. Massive Thanks**

To Abernaith: Thank you for your thoughts regarding FEE3 and especially for affirming fanfiction in general. I think fanfiction can be highly underrated. If you think about it, from a business perspective, writing fanfiction, defined as writing stories stemming from someone else's characters and universes, is like being part of the writing team on an ongoing TV series, or, or writing a sequel to a movie, or writing a book based on existing characters (this is a pretty large business). Most importantly, it's a breeding ground for aspiring writers to practice and improve.

To Arayelle Lynn: When you asked me if I was thinking of putting in a Tolkien cameo, I was intrigued, I really was, haha. I turned the idea over in my head, but I lost my nerve, haha. He's so revered I just thought it was dangerous and demanded a lot more research than I had time for. But I love the way you think. Your reviews are always so astute :)

To AznYyoOhki: You know I value your reviews and thoughts very much. Thank you for sharing and for reviewing _everything_. My reviews have been few lately, and it's always very comforting to know that you make the time and effort. I thank you very, very deeply for your time and thoughts. Also, as for your question re: Legolas' hair, please check out the art information detailed below :)

To Belle Celestyn: Your view in Nazism in history is very interesting. There are very many strong perspectives on the issue, so strong that tackling them is like navigating a minefield. My fictional and admittedly simplistic approach is not as revolutionary as your thoughts, but to hear that from you makes me very proud that any little story of mine can provoke ideas. If you've read my other fics, I'm not very partial to traditional villainy; everyone is misled in some way, everyone makes mistakes and always, people are driven to act according to what they feel is right and unfortunately, this is not a universal given, and so we have these conflicts. The human race is going to be having quite a bit more of that, I think, before we all figure things out. But I am hoping that we are moving toward a more harmonious future (it's so hard to be sure if we are, nowadays).

To Joee1: The moment you said you were a history major in your review of Chapter 2, I knew you would ask about the Roanoke colonists and you did not at all disappoint, haha :) Since it is a prevalent mystery, I do not have the answer. I just hope that my plot evasion is acceptable haha! Thank you for reviewing and sharing your thoughts. I love history and am honored to have the chance of mixing that passion with my love for Lord of the Rings. I am also very, very appreciative of the time you spend on reviewing. I always look forward to your thoughts.

To JunoMagic: I am very sorry about the italics. Generally, I'm resistant to change and since you know I write much of the story already before posting, not to mention I've already posted a couple before your comment, it had already set a precedent and an order that really would have been confusing for me to change, haha. Maybe if I rehash the fic a few years from now. In the meantime, though, the use of italics has been a convenient tradition for me. I hope it's not too massive of an inconvenience. Thank you for reading and pointing this out, though :)

To Kaitokitty: Thank you for taking note of my OC's. I'm very careful with them, and try my hardest to keep them from being too annoying or diverting. I just hope they brought out the best in the characters that we know and love. Also, "Memento Mori" is something like 'Remember you are mortal.'

To Lisette: I truly appreciate the perception behind your reviews, especially for Chapter 10. You're right in saying that there seems to be some sort of a barrier between Legolas' struggles and the efforts of his friends. I guess ultimately, he is still different, no matter where they all end up. I also liked it when you said that Legolas should never be a victim, as I feel the same way :)

Massive thanks also go out to: Ziggy, Eve, A-zla, Aki and Tenshi, Almeruve, Ama, Andune Oronra, Annelies, Anwamane13, Aranna Undomiel, Avid Fan, Balrogs Breath, Blaise821, Bookloverfanatic, Calenlass Greenleaf1, Cheetahluke, Clueless, Crystal-Rose15, Crystal113, Edwina, Elenaelemirre, Elentarri, Everkitsune, Fair rider, Freakmoister, Gemma, Gilraen Aclamense, Happygoatwoman, Heryn-o-Eryn-Duin, Ilirium, Incompetent Fool, Irish Anor, jellies, Jellybelly761, jellybelly, Jen, Jenn, Jess, Jess Tsuki, JessikainKontrol, K'lara7, Kim, Kthn, Lady Angst, Lady Korana, Lady Lunas, Laer4572, LifeIsRandom09, Light Sorceress, Lin, Little mary sunchine, Maethoriel Jasmine, Mary Sunshine, MkofGod, Mirime93, Momo, Musicstarlover, N.S. Tulkas, Nenalinde, Nessa Ar-Feiniel, Nieriel Raina, Nina, Ninna, Pellawethiel, Peppy Power, Peregrin Ionad, Petite-Peeshwank, Pheonix Queen, Rockpaperscissor, Scatteredbrains, Setrinan, Shoutgraffiti, Sidhnanledhiel, Siennawoods, Silverstarling, Silverstarling9, Stoneage Woman, Vanafindiel, VerPissDich, The White Masque, Zafaran and Ziggy.

Thanks to all who read and especially all who reveiwed. I try very, very hard not to skip anybody (I have a complicated Excel worksheet haha) so if I did, please call me out on it so I can give you the thanks you deserve! I know it's hard to take the time so I have a very grave appreciation, guys. Thank you so very, very, very much.

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**IX. Translations and Art for For Every Evil**

Special shout out to all the people who have helped make For Every Evil all that it can be by (1) increasing its market reach through translations and by posting art and links to it and (2) inspiring me to continue; I tell you now, without the art that I have seen for FEE1, FEE2 would have stayed on the shelf or at most, would have been posted much, _much_ later, haha. To Kaitokitty, M Elisabeth Penn and the ever-unstoppable Lukeyoung, Ilxwing and Caterpillar, you guys are amazing and I am dumbfounded as to how in the world I was lucky enough to have managed to get you on my corner. Lots of thanks and best of all, lots of love!

Please check out Ilxwing's work on For Every Evil. I get asked about how people in FEE look all the time and you know what they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, haha! My personal favorites are (1) Elrohir and Legolas in Imladris drinking coke and playing PS2 (after a scene in FEE1) and (2) an illustration for FEE3's "Sea Dog."

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**X. The Next Projects**

I'm sure I'm not the only one who ever thought that "Aragorn," "Arwen" and "Legolas" sounds too close to "Arthur," "Guenevere" and "Lancelot" to ignore. And so an idea for the next project, if it should ever be written, is born. If my other stories were dark, this one's going to be pitch-black and stifling. I'm going for the style I employed in what is, I must say again, haha, probably my favorite and least popular work, "Love, War," except it will be infinitely shorter. I am even considering a one-shot, but we'll just have to see (haven't done shorties in a long time).

I've also been sitting on a few projects in other fandoms for which I've never posted before, like House, M.D. and King Arthur. I have over twenty pages of each of two stories in these fandoms that I've never posted in the fear that I might not finish them and leave a lot of loose ends, but now feels like a good time to look at them again and give them a shot. I have also been considering retiring, haha, there's just too much to do and well, we all gotta eat so we all gotta work too, haha. But nothing is ever certain, right? If a project intrigues me, I'll still probably go for it anyway.

Until then, all the best to everybody and 'Til the Next Post!


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